GIFT  OF 
A.   P.   Morrison 


MEMORIES 


MEMORIES 


By 
ALMA  NEWTON 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 
1917 


COPYBIGHT,  1917,  BY 

DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 

GIFT  OF 


INTRODUCTION 

I  have  always  believed  that  the  old-fash- 
ioned habit  of  keeping  a  diary  was  prompted 
more  by  the  individual's  love  of  romance  and 
color  than  by  any  petty  conceit  or  exagger- 
ated ego ;  for  is  not  a  diary  often  composed 
of  events  in  the  lives  of  others  rather  than 
that  of  the  writer,  and  may  it  not  possess  one 
incomparable  charm,  naturalness  ?  There  be- 
ing no  attempt  toward  the  technical  and 
studied,  the  diary  is  just  a  simple,  unaffected 
record  of  experiences  written  right  out 
from  the  heart,  with  the  abandonment  of  a 
musician  who  dares  to  interpret  in  his  own 
way,  thrusting  aside  conventional  rules — re- 
taining only  certain  fundamental  principles 
upon  which  the  work  is  built;  forgetting  the 
objective  sense  of  things ;  lost  in  the  infinite 
beauties  of  the  subjective  mind,  that  realm  of 


M95630 


INTRODUCTION 

inspiration  and  mystic  depth  which  annihi- 
lates all  petty  conceptions,  details  and  minor 
emotions. 

It  is  my  desire  to  write  in  this  way,  with 
daring,  naturalness  and  simplicity — directly 
to  the  heart  of  my  readers  with  only  one  bnr- 
den  upon  my  sonl :  the  realization  that  the  ef- 
fort can  only  be  that  of  a  poor  scribe.  .  .  . 
I  now  introduce  myself, — Zarah  Kreeshna. 


FIRST  MEMOEY 


The  "humility  of  a  great  love  is  ever  amazing. 

MAETERLINCK. 


MEMORIES 


IT  was  on  Long  Island  that  I  met  Louis 
Benaud  in  a  large,  over-crowded  hotel.  He 
seemed  quite  aloof  and  apart  from  the  guests ; 
he  appeared  to  be  entirely  engaged  with  the 
real  things  of  life.  He  was  tall,  dark,  impres- 
sive— beautiful,  if  one  might  apply  that  word 
to  a  man,  in  its  artistic  sense ;  a  strange  com- 
bination of  soul,  mind  and  body.  There  was 
something  occult  about  him,  with  just  enough 
boyishness  to  make  him  fascinating.  The 
minute  I  saw  him  I  cared  for  him;  when  I 
talked  with  him  I  cared  more ;  when  I  heard 
him  playing  his  violin  I  loved  him,  for  then 
I  knew  the  inner  man  and  the  inner  man  was 
beautiful. 

He  did  not  specialize  in  his  music,  for  he 


4  MEMORIES 

was  a  physician  of  about  four  and  thirty. . . . 

I  gave  him  my  love  freely,  naturally,  like 
a  child  placing  a  basket  of  fresh  flowers  in  his 
hand  and  then  standing  back  bewildered,  con- 
founded, when  no  recognition  was  received — 
no  thanks  for  my  pretty  gift.  Like  a  child  I 
ofte$£tble  \ip*  tcj  feftrf  on  the  long  board  walk 
and  pee'p'edinto  ttns'ihental  basket  of  nature's 
layfefiltess^ihiiimg,  raittng  for  the  least  sign 
*— -a  smile", 'a  wbrcT'o'f  tfeanks  or  gracious  ap- 
preciation ;  bnt  never  a  smile  and  never  one 
word  of  encouragement.  .  .  . 

The  months  wore  on,  and  soon  it  was  time 
to  return  to  the  busy  city  where  I  planned  lit- 
tle conventional  meetings.  I  asked  him  to 
dine,  to  tea.  He  came  sometimes,  oftener 
declined.  I  was  puzzled,  curious,  bewildered. 
Did  he  love  someone  else?  Was  he  engaged 
or  was  Ee  merely  busy?  Surely  he  guessed 
my  love — surely  it  would  be  returned. 

He  must  realize  our  kinship — the  relation- 
ship of  souls. 

But  time  passed  and  there  was  no  change. 
There  were  months  of  suspense — weary  days 
and  sleepless  nights  until  one  morning  I 
awakened  to  find  myself  a  ghastly  creature, 


MEMORIES  5 

void  of  color  or  life.  Listlessly  I  telephoned 
to  my  physician.  I  remember  a  few  words  to 
him — "Come  to  me,"  I  said,  "it  is  Zarah" — 
that  is  all  I  can  recall.  My  next  remembrance 
was  in  the  afternoon  when  I  awakened  to  find 
a  nurse,  and  a  friend  bending  over  me  and 
the  friend  saying:  "I  shall  tell  him — he  mnst 
know — it  is  killing  her ! ' ' 

A  few  hours  passed  when  I  was  again 
awakened  by  voices  in  the  next  room.  I 
crept  to  the  door  and  listened.  I  heard  these 
words:  "I  am  sorry;  it  is  unfortunate.  I 
admire  Zarah,  but  I  do  not  love  her.  I  am 
engaged  to "  Suddenly  there  was  dark- 
ness, a  sharp  pain  in  my  heart  and  then  a 
dropping,  dropping — a  heavy  thud — another 
pain,  and  someone  lifting  me  from  the  floor 
— two  strong  arms,  Ms  arms,  and  then  the 
nurse,  my  friend,  a  hypodermic,  a  last  look 
at  my  beloved  as  he  quietly  left  the  room. 
Then — annihilation — forgetfulness — nothing- 
ness. 

I  shall  spare  my  reader  a  rehearsal  of  the 
dreadful  days  that  followed — days  of  long- 
ing, waiting,  tears,  futile  prayers,  monotony 
— an  occasional  message  from  Louis,  some 


6  MEMOEIES 

formal  thought,  flowers  or  a  book  and  noth- 
ing more.  Yet  /  still  cared.  Was  it  weak- 
ness or  destiny?  Was  it  hypnotism  or 
Karma? 

One  thing  was  certain,  the  problem  had  to 
be  faced  philosophically.  This  required  a 
prosaic  system  of  dieting,  sleep  and  exercise  ; 
to  offset  a  permanent  breakdown,  eliminating  ; 
all  stimulants,  leaving  only  a  dull  routine  and 
many  leaden  hours  to  be  lived  through. 
There  were  so  many  hours  to  be  lived — hours 
where  all  resources  had  been  exhausted ;  the 
body  too  tired  for  further  effort — hours  that 
evolved  into  an  eternity;  hours  that  crawled 
by  in  which  there  was  nothing  to  do. 

Human  beings  were  to  be  found,  of  course, 
but  who  among  them  could  understand  ?  And 
does  not  reserve  often  force  us  into  silence, 
leaving  us  only  the  song  from  the  Garden  of 
Allah,  so  potent,  so  real,  which  begins  "Only 
God  and  I  know  what  is  in  my  heart." 

Finally  the  mind  reaches  out  for  some 
great  wholesome  philosophy,  perhaps  for  the 
words  of  Emerson:  "Give  me  health  for  a 
day  and  I  will  make  the  pomp  of  emperors 
insignificant" — or  Browning's:  "All's  right 


MEMORIES  71 

with  the  world," — or  just  a  little  sentence  of 
one's  own:  "It  might  be  worse,  it  might  be 
worse" — until  the  soul,  all  shrouded  in  grief, 
suddenly  raises  its  arms  in  prayer  and  stag- 
gers up  a  mountain  path,  looking  past  dim 
shadows  into  the  faces  of  bright  fairies  that 
beckon  and  call  to  distant  shepherd  boys  who 
leave  the  remnant  of  a  song  or  gypsy  queens 
their  charms — a  wild  mixture  of  nature,  ro- 
mance and  song;  yet  hearing  still  the  call  of 
the  blood,  taunted  by  the  realization  that  love 
is  the  only  force  which  brings  happiness  to 
" those  strange  people"  whom  Max  Muller 
"so  loved  since  childhood." 

I  speak  not  of  the  maudlin  sentiment  or 
the  sordid  passion,  so  often  called  love.  .  .  . 
I  speak  of  the  love  that  Buddha  called  Law; 
Confucius,  Eevelation;  and  the  Nazarene, 
God. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

Louis  knew  that  I  cared.  And  yet  he 
seemed  rather  to  regard  my  interest  in  him 
as  a  bond — a  tie  that  would  make  me  his  loyal 
and  useful  friend.  Often  he  dashed  up  the 
stairs  to  my  studio,  consumed  with  enthus- 
iasm, throwing  himself  upon  the  divan,  hast- 
ily lighting  a  cigarette  and  beginning  the 
endless  eulogy  of  another  woman. 

I  continued  my  painting,  glad  that  the  can- 
vas was  between  us  so  that  my  face  was 
hidden  from  view,  aimlessly  painting  a 
woman's  lips  blue,  her  eyes  staring  into  space, 
in  unconscious  correspondence  to  the  mental 
vision  of  myself.  The  background  of  my 
painting  was  made  gray — another  uncon- 
scious revelation  of  days  that  were  gray  and 
dim,  when  work  had  been  impossible — when 
the  evening  descended  upon  mental  ashes,  the 

8 


MEMORIES  9 

effort  to  follow  out  a  certain  system  for  the 
day  futile — the  physical  self  too  numbed  by 
pain.  There  were  other  days  of  keen  grief 
and  suffering  of  that  exalted,  emotional  kind 
where  fond  hopes  and  spiritual  reminiscences 
crowd  over  the  mind  in  splendid  dreams,  with 
visions  of  renunciation  and  consecration — of 
looking  at  life  from  the  mountain  top  forget- 
ting that  a  reaction  must  follow,  the  human 
side  to  assert  itself  again  in  mute  suffering, 
too  tired  to  cry  out,  too  hopeless  for  longing, 
too  wise  for  futile  dreams.  .  .  . 

The  woman  of  whom  he  spoke  so  contin- 
uously was  Stella  Graham;  he  described  her 
as  possessing  rare  beauty  and  a  versatile  na- 
ture, standing  out  from  other  women  in  bold 
relief  like  an  exquisite  miniature  among  com- 
monplace bric-a-brac.  She  was  as  beautiful 
as  Venus  in  the  material  sense,  he  said,  and 
yet  her  face  was  as  angelic  as  a  Madonna. 
He  described  her  as  dressing  in  simple  gowns, 
conspicuous  in  their  absence  of  trimming  and 
jewelry.  She  wore  her  hair  simply  coiled 
upon  her  white  neck.  There  was  a  singularly 
pensive  smile  hovering  about  her  lips,  ex- 
pressing wistfulness;  something  infinitely 


10  MEMOEIES 

white,  gentle,  angelic  .  .  .  her  nature  vibrat- 
ing with  asceticism  and  high  idealism.  Again 
he  described  her — gowned  in  a  most  regal 
way,  in  warm  colors,  sensuous,  appealing,  ir- 
resistibly human, — palpitating  with  red  blood 
and  vivid  enthusiasm.  He  called  her  Ma- 
donna and  I  called  her  Venus ;  quite  gradu- 
ally I  began  to  think  of  her  as  Venus  and  the 
Madonna,  for  she  seemed  to  possess  a  dual 
personality,  two  distinct  natures  in  direct  con- 
flict with  each  other. 

I  tried  to  show  no  emotion  when  he  told  me 
that  Stella  Graham  was  ill  and  alone  in  the 
city  and  that  he  wished  me  to  go  to  her.  My 
feelings  were  indescribable !  That  he  should 
ask  something  he  realized  must  unnerve  me ; 
to  go  to  the  woman  he  loved.  All  kinds  of 
emotions  welled  up  in  my  soul;  resentment, 
indignation  and  bitterness ;  but  lastly  pride, 
that  indefinable  something  which  causes  cer- 
tain women  to  dare  anything. 

"I  will  go  to  her  to-morrow,"  I  said  in- 
differently, in  an  apathetic  voice. 

He  left  me  alone  with  my  thoughts,  only 
thanking  me  formally  in  a  way  which  either 
showed  complete  indifference  or  lack  of  real- 


MEMOEIES  11 

ization  that  I  still  cared  for  him.^  Or  was  it 
merely  masculine  cruelty  I  He  seemed  almost 
to  enjoy  the  situation ! 

All  that  night  through  I  fought  conflict- 
ing emotions — jealousy,  bitterness,  indig- 
nation. 

One  thing  was  certain.  If  she  were  so  se- 
riously ill,  so  alone,  there  was  no  time  to  be 
lost,  a  decision  must  be  reached.  At  dawn  I 
had  determined  to  go  to  her.  I  could  only 
think  of  the  word  " her,"  yet  I  quite  knew  her 
name.  But  it's  a  way  with  women,  I  believe, 
when  thinking  of  the  other  woman. 

Another  realization  came  upon  me.  I  was 
curious  to  see  what  she  was  like.  How  truly 
feminine  that  was!  I  wondered  if  she  was 
really  so  pretty,  so  versatile,  so  unique; — 
well,  I  would  see.  .  .  . 

After  an  hour's  walk  through  the  park,  in 
an  effort  to  control  my  emotion,  I  reached 
her  door.  There  was  no  bell.  It  was  a 
strange,  old-fashioned  place.  I  knocked 
twice.  There  was  no  sound.  .Again  and 
again,  after  waiting  breathlessly  for  minutes 
that  seemed  hours,  the  door  opened  and  I 
found  myself  staring  into  the  tense,  white 


12  MEMOEIES 

face  of  the  man  I  loved — Louis,  the  physi- 
cian. 

Quietly  I  entered  the  room  and  my  eye 
caught  sight  of  an  old-fashioned,  four-poster 
bed,  a  table,  a  chair  and  a  few  handsome  Per- 
sian rugs.  The  clock  was  striking  dismally 
the  hour  of  noon. 

"Where  is  she?"  I  said  mechanically. 
Turning  my  head  toward  the  window  I  caught 
the  shadow  of  a  figure  coming  toward  me,  as 
though  bewildered,  walking  in  a  dream.  She 
looked  so  pathetic,  so  young,  so  helpless.  I 
reached  out  my  hand  to  steady  her  as  she 
tottered  toward  me,  and  without  a  word  she 
walked  right  into  my  arms  like  a  tired  child, 
charming  me  by  so  simple  a  demonstration; 
calling  out  the  protective  instinct,  which, 
when  awakened  in  some  women,  responds 
with  warmth  and  understanding. 

In  'just  Ms  one  minute  she  had  won  me. 
She  owned  me. 

I  forgot  myself,  my  loving,  my  lover — I 
only  thought  of  this  helpless  child  in  my 
arms. 

And  how  beautiful  she  was!  Even  more 
exquisite  than  He  had  pictured  her.  A  mar- 


MEMOEIES  13 

velous  combination  of  child  and  woman,  ani- 
mal and  spirit ;  the  embodiment  of  sensuous 
charm  and  spiritual  loveliness — something  to 
be  loved  and  studied,  for  her  soul  was  like 
a  harp,  all  full  of  possibilities,  ready  to  break 
into  beautiful  chords. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

THE  day  wore  on,  and  I  finally  persuaded 
Stella  to  be  quiet,  to  lie  down.  She  was  suf- 
fering from  a  nervous  breakdown,  in  which 
there  was  a  touch  of  typhoid,  and  her  suifer- 
ing  and  restlessness  were  pathetic. 

A  storm  raged  without  as  night  came  on. 
The  shutters  creaked,  the  candle  light  flut- 
tered in  the  darkness,  while  the  wind  whistled 
in  weird  strains  under  the  door.  Stella 
moaned  and  tossed  in  delirium;  the  heavy 
odor  of  herbs  boiling  in  the  kettle  stifled  the 
-air.  Louis  walked  up  and  down  heavily — the 
floor  creaked — the  lightning  flashed,  symbolic 
of  ruthless,  elemental  forces  raging  without 
— the  harsh  voice  of  accompanying  thunder 
echoed  in  the  distance ;  rain  drops  fell  upon 
the  tin  roof  as  though  in  a  great  reaction  of 
pain.  At  last  there  was  silence,  save  for  the 

14 


MEMORIES  15 

faint  breathing  of  Stella,  and  a  whisper  from 
Louis: 

"Thank  God  that  has  passed — she  is  better 
now!" 

I  looked  up  at  him  fixedly,  but  he  did  not 
see  me — did  not  see  that  I  was  tired  and 
weary  as  a  result  of  the  long  watch  and  per- 
sistent care.  I  just  continued  to  stare  aim- 
lessly— he  looking  into  the  dying  embers  of 
things — I  looking  into  the  heart  of  a  man  ob- 
sessed by  love  for  another  woman. 

The  candle  went  out,  a  string  on  an  old 
harp  snapped,  the  clock  solemnly  struck  the 
hour  of  three.  Dawn  had  come,  bringing 
thoughts  of  courage  and  renunciation. 

Stella  recovered  gradually.  Was  I  glad! 
I  had  learned  to  love  her,  yet  strange,  weird 
fancies  flitted  through  my  mind.  How  splen- 
did it  would  be  if  she  no  longer  existed — then 
he  would  turn  to  me  for  comfort,  and  I  would 
be  happy  just  to  be  near  him,  even  realizing 
that  his  thoughts  were  of  another.  Was  I 
lacking  in  pride?  Was  I  weak,  or  very 
strong?  Weak  in  an  apparent  humbleness  of 
spirit,  strong  in  my  steadfast  love  f  I  did  not 
know.  I  only  knew  that  time  and  indiffer- 


16  MEMOKIES 

ence  had  produced  no  change — that  I  was 
only  a  poor,  suffering  animal  obsessed  by  one 
idea,  my  love  and  need  of  him. 

How  difficult  it  is  to  put  aside  our  dreams 
that  have  been  visualized  so  concretely.  Just 
when  we  believe  that  we  have  crushed  the 
memory  of  an  individual,  environment  faces 
us  with  an  atmosphere  filled  with  sweet  and 
pathetic  dreams. 

I  had  kept  a  rosary  hanging  over  his  pic- 
ture. I  destroyed  that  picture  and  the  rosary. 
How  strange,  how  remote  was  my  room !  The 
personality  was  so  changed.  Marked  books, 
pressed  flowers  and  letters — they,  too,  had 
gone!  Could  I  live  in  that  room  again?  I 
could  not.  It  would  stifle  me.  I  could  not 
bear  the  oppression — I  would  go  elsewhere. 
I  would  run  away.  Such  is  a  woman's 
way.  .  .  . 

When  Stella  was  stronger  we  had  many 
long,  interesting  walks  together;  I  was  fas- 
cinated by  her  new  and  sudden  moods.  Sub- 
tle, artistic,  graceful — never  inconsistent  or 
bad  humored;  changing  from  one  to  another 
like  the  moods  of  a  wonderful  symphony  re- 
sulting in  a  perfect  whole.  How  restful  and 


MEMOEIES  17 

sympathetic  it  made  her;  she  responded  to 
everything.  She  represented  a  trinity  in  the 
sense  of  a  perfect  development  of  soul,  mind 
and  body. 

There  was  a  minor  strain  through  her  na- 
ture, a  genuine  sadness  not  of  personal  dis- 
content, but  compassion  for  all  suffering,  and 
a  deep  understanding  of  humanity. 

Her  mind  seemed  a  thousand  years  old  in 
the  depth  of  its  wisdom;  her  soul  as  though 
she  had  lived  with  the  immortals;  her  body 
young  and  beautiful — a  combination  I  had 
never  known  before.  It  was  as  though  she 
had  lived  before,  lived  in  many  forms  from 
the  heights  of  idealism  befitting  a  priestess  of 
some  eastern  temple  to  a  Cleopatra  type  of 
beauty  and  desire,  down  through  the  ages, 
and  now  placed  in  so  strange  a  setting — a 
setting  too  new,  too  modern.  It  was  not  the 
proper  environment.  .  .  . 

I  revelled  in  flights  of  fancy  in  an  effort  to 
diagnose  this  very  unique  character,  Stella 
Graham. 

Louis  was  right  in  calling  her  Madonna. 
In  our  walks  she  spoke  of  children;  love  of 
them  was  a  passion  with  her,  ever  present, 


18  MEMORIES 

over-mastering.  This  greatly  interested  me, 
and  I  tried  to  make  her  talk  freely  and  con- 
fidingly. 

"Sometimes,"  she  said,  "I  am  awakened  at 
dawn  by  the  indistinct  memory  of  little  chil- 
dren's voices  chanting  in  a  minor  key,  chant- 
ing of  the  dignity  of  their  mission  in  life,  the 
living  expression  of  human  love.  As  I  see 
them,  in  my  reverie,  they  are  enveloped  in  ex- 
quisite pastel  shades  from  the  faintest  bine 
to  rose  pink  and  pale  lavender.  From  these 
colors  spring  a  chord,  a  minor  chord  of  al- 
most happy  sadness,  for  the  sadness  is  more 
a  deep  longing  than  the  common  form  of  sad- 
ness— the  longing  for  things  supreme,  the 
longing  for  the  consummation  of  all  love  into 
the  final  call  of  Nirvana,  where  only  purity 
and  beauty  dwell. 

"Sometimes  these  little  ones  seem  to  take 
pity  upon  my  longing,  and  in  my  dreams  they 
draw  near  and,  with  their  rose-petaled  hands, 
smooth  my  hair  and  kiss  my  lips,  dropping 
wild-flowers  and  angels'- wings  at  my  feet. 

"This  may  sound  fantastic  to  you,"  she 
continued,  "but  to  me  it  is  very  real,  believ- 
ing as  I  do  in  the  nearness  of  Paradise.  May 


MEMOEIES  19 

it  not  be  that  little  spirit  children  hover  very 
closely  around  us  bringing  peace  and  bene- 
diction? 

"For  there  is  no  death,  no  absolute  anni- 
hilation— there  is  only  transition.  And  I 
wonder  if  those  of  us  who  have  suffered  and 
lost  do  not  unconsciously  attract  the  souls  in 
the  world  of  Paradise  so  that  we  may  be  com- 
forted? Many  of  us  think  of  that  other  life 
as  being  far  away,  in  the  distance,  when  in 
reality  it  is  near — in,  about,  around  us — 
everywhere.  True,  we  cannot  always  touch 
and  see  it  with  our  physical  hands  and  eyes ; 
but  we  know  that  the  greatest  Forces  are  the 
silent  ones ;  electricity  is  silent,  yet  how  near, 
how  potent,  how  marvelous!  How  can  we 
doubt?  Does  not  modern  science  go  hand  in 
hand  with  occultism — proving,  demonstrat- 
ing, materializing,  the  so-called  supernatural 
Forces — making  us  realize  that  the  greatest 
wisdom  was  uttered  by  the  Nazarene  when 
He  said.  ( Because  seeing  they  see  not,  and 
hearing  they  hear  not,  neither  do  they  under- 
stand. ' 

"Think  of  the  subtlety  of  the  universe,  the 
constant,  penetrating  law  of  vibration! 


20  MEMORIES 

Every  sound  is  registered  somewhere.  Al- 
ways there  is  a  great  chorus  of  Subjective 
sound,  for  everything  has  its  echo  just  as 
everything  has  its  complement,  only  our 
physical  or  objective  ears  hear  not. 

"Knowing  this  to  be  true,  I  can  quite  ex- 
plain many  complex  and  elusive  things  to 
myself  through  the  laws  of  vibration  and 
gravity.  For  instance,  I  feel,  when  I  long 
and  think  of  little  children,  that  a  vibration 
from  these  thoughts  penetrates  into  the  heart 
of  Paradise  itself,  the  law  of  gravity  acting 
as  a  pilot,  bringing  these  little  souls  through 
the  dense  clouds  of  the  ether  down  to  earth, 
to  remain  as  willing  captives  of  thought." 

She  continued  talking,  her  face  radiant 
with  emotion.  Now  and  then  the  voice 
dropped  into  a  plaintive,  appealing  note  until 
I  could  feel  her  rapture.  She  had  a  way  of 
speaking  as  though  addressing  an  audience, 
earnest  and  dramatic,  yet  in  low,  measured 
tones.  Now  and  then  I  would  step  forward 
in  our  walk  to  clear  the  path,  catching  a 
glimpse  of  her  face  and  the  simple  white  gown 
she  wore.  I  could  not  resist  contrasting  this 
with  the  one  worn  the  evening  before,  a  vivid, 


MEMORIES  21 

sensuous  gown,  displaying  her  wonderful 
shoulders  and  white  arms  with  daring  aban- 
donment. In  all  truth  she  was  a  woman  with 
two  distinct  personalities,  an  interesting  psy- 
chological study.  After  many  minutes  of  fear 
and  hesitation  I  ventured  to  tell  her  of  her 
dual  nature.  I  feared  it  might  even  antago- 
nize her.  Instead,  she  answered  me  quite 
simply  and  pleasantly. 

"I  have  heard  that  before,  but  from  people 
who  do  not  think.  I  am  not  complex,  elusive, 
subtle.  I  am  simple,  natural,  feminine!  I 
embody  the  two  instincts  normal  to  woman — 
the  love  for  a  mate  and  the  love  for  a  child. 
They  are  very  different  loves  but  they  har- 
monize and  blend  just  as  do  the  different 
notes  of  a  chord.  Most  of  the  women  you 
know  in  the  conventional  world  are  void  of 
the  maternal  instinct;  therefore,  when  yon 
meet  a  woman  in  whom  it  is  highly  developed 
you  immediately  begin  to  look  for  an  abnor- 
mal explanation — when  the  explanation  is  so 
simple  and  plain.  The  Venus  side  that  you 
see  is  the  mere  woman.  The  spiritual  side 
of  my  nature,  which  Louis  sees,  is  the  Mother 
in  me." 


22  MEMORIES 

She  threw  out  her  hands  dramatically.  I 
saw  her  face  lighting  in  a  more  mental  ex- 
pression, and  I  pressed  my  questions  fur- 
ther, hoping  that  she  would  talk  unreserv- 
edly. 

"But,"  I  continued,  "you  have  so  many 
moods.  How  do  you  explain  them?" 

This  I  said  with  a  tinge  of  sarcasm.  She 
answered  me  quickly. 

"Everything  normal  in  nature  is  moody. 
A  sweeping  statement,  but  nevertheless  true. 
The  seasons  are  moody,  the  sky  is  moody; 
the  moon,  the  sun,  color,  light,  sound — 
the  universe!  There  is  a  constant  action  and 
reaction  in  everything.  There  is  an  artistic 
necessity  and  beauty  in  moods.  We  must  be 
versatile  and  negative  enough  to  catch  the 
melodies  from  the  beautiful  in  people  as  well 
as  things. 

"We  must  be  responsive. 

"We  must  be  moody,  to  respond  and  ex- 
press the  Forces  about  us — thus  becoming 
graceful,  and  complete.  I  should  like  to  be 
more  full  of  moods  than  I  am,  strange  though 
it  may  sound.  I  long  to  feel  that  I  am  an 
instrument  registering  everything  good  and 


MEMOEIES  23 

bad  so  that  I  may  have  the  opportunity  of 
overcoming  the  bad ;  the  privilege  of  develop- 
ing the  good.  If  I  could  create  a  virtue  in 
character,  as  well  as  in  art,  I  would  create 
Versatility,  for  all  nature  vibrates  with  sud- 
den change,  glorious  and  everlasting. 

"Much  more  I  might  say  to  you,  but  you 
would  misconstrue  my  frankness  for  conceit, 
my  individualism  for  egotism.  I  shall  say  no 


more. 


We  retraced  our  steps,  going  back  to  her 
home.  In  the  distance  I  could  hear  the  church 
bells  and  chimes  ringing  out  from  the  village. 
It  was  Sunday.  The  peace  of  the  woods  was 
exquisite,  the  perfume  of  the  newly-cut  grass 
was  about  us ;  the  stillness  irresistible. 

It  was  interesting  to  watch  her  as  she  un- 
consciously fell  into  the  mood  of  the  day — 
gentle  and  serene,  in  harmony — always  in 
tune  with  the  dominant  note — for  Stella  lis- 
tened and  heard.  , 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

THE  realization  had  come  to  me  that 
Louis's  love  was  well  placed  and  yet  I  still 
loved  him  and  wondered  how  the  days  were 
to  be  lived. 

It  was  Sunday  again — the  dawn  had  come 
like  a  great  message  of  death,  full  of  fore- 
bodings and  gloomy  realities.  Something 
hovered  near,  some  ngly  phantom  with  long 
black  wings  of  despair,  flapping  its  unearthly 
messages  into  the  free  air — polluting  the  at- 
mosphere with  waves  of  thought  which  struck 
upon  the  air  like  the  discordant  tones  of  a 
badly  strung  guitar — tones  doubly  repellent, 
because  of  the  realization  that  those  very 
tones  might  have  been  beautiful  had  the  in- 
strument been  just  a  little  more  in  tune ; — or 
that  the  phantom  might  have  been  fashioned 
with  bright  wings  of  joy  and  glad  tidings. 

24 


MEMORIES  25 

It  is  tEis  nearness  to  perfection  that  tortures, 
not  its  utter  absence.  .  .  . 

In  this  nearness  to  happiness  we  are  be- 
wildered by  combined  hope  and  fear,  men- 
tally holding  to  a  curfew  bell  which  swings 
us  out  into  vast  spaces  of  suspense ;  clasping 
with  a  hand  the  one  instrument  of  contact,  be- 
ing thrust  out  far  beyond  the  range  of  hope ; 
at  the  last  to  be  thrown  down  to  earth  defeated 
and  ashamed;  where  only  the  earth  is  left 
us,  which  we  are  taught  to  think  of  as  our 
Mother.  .  .  .  But  at  this  moment  of  over- 
whelming desire,  what  normal  person  could 
think  of  the  cold  earth  as  a  mother?  The 
desire  is  to  run  away  from  its  serene  presence 
of  negative  consolation.  Our  tired  hearts  are 
longing  for  an  almost  fierce  understanding, 
the  kind  that  wraps  its  arms  about  us  rug- 
gedly and  clasps  us  deep  into  the  heart  of 
things. 

I  once  saw  a  frightened  child  running  from 
the  green  loveliness  of  a  summer  garden.  I 
wondered  then  why  she  ran  from  the  beauti- 
ful foliage  that  enveloped  her,  but  now  I  un- 
derstand. In  our  first  grief  the  desire  is  for 
human  understanding.  Afterwards  we  learn 


26  MEMORIES 

that  we  must  retrace  our  steps  and  go  back 
to  Nature — back  to  the  primitive  source  of 
life  for  permanent  comfort,  courage  and  in- 
spiration. 

In  a  few  days  my  companionship  with 
Stella  was  ended;  she  was  quite  well  again 
and  I  felt  a  longing  for  the  country.  To  be 
away.  To  be  alone. 

The  day  before  I  left  there  was  a  sailing 
party  and  a  dance. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning  when  we  started 
our  sail;  the  air  crisp  with  the  breath  of 
spring,  the  early  roses  fragrant  in  their  first 
blooming,  the  grass  so  newly  green,  the  sky 
radiantly  tinted  in  blue,  the  water  clear  with 
an  occasional  sail-boat  drifting  out  to  sea — 
waves  dashing  against  the  rocks,  making  a 
picturesque  setting  for  Stella,  whose  person- 
ality unconsciously  blended  with  these  simple 
manifestations  of  nature. 

She  fairly  ran  down  the  path  to  our  boat 
and  jumped  swiftly,  eagerly,  into  it  with  the 
joyousness  of  a  child.  We  started,  the  wind 
taking  us  south  for  a  few  minutes ;  gradually 
we  went  more  swiftly,  Stella  standing  near 
me,  eyes  shining,  hair  disheveled  and  falling 


MEMOEIES  27 

over  a  red  coat,  which  greatly  heightened  the 
color  in  her  cheeks. 

We  sailed  for  several  hours  and  in  those 
honrs  there  was  very  little  said.  Stella 
seemed  to  be  lost  in  the  rhythm  of  tEe  boat 
as  it  rode  the  waves.  We  fairly  sped  over  the 
water,  the  waves  dashing  against  onr  sturdy 
craft,  the  wind  blowing  the  salt  water  in  onr 
faces,  bringing  a  keen  exhilaration.  I 
watched  Stella.  She  seemed  indifferent  to 
my  interest,  unconscious  of  anything  per- 
sonal. She  was  natural  and  primitive  in  her 
delight  of  so  simple  a  pleasure.  She  did  not 
attempt  to  sustain  any  conversation.  The 
few  questions  asked  her  were  scarcely  an- 
swered. Once  or  twice  I  ventured  some  re- 
mark, but  her  only  response  was  a  yes  or  a 
no  until  we  got  to  shore  again.  Leaving  the 
boat,  we  walked  a  few  yards  up  the  path, 
where  we  stood  on  a  rock  overlooking  the  sea. 

"Forgive  me,  my  friend,"  she  said,  "for- 
give me,  for  I  have  been  a  stupid  companion 
this  morning.  I  can  never  talk  when  I  am 
near  the  water.  It  is  like  talking  when  music 
is  heard;  I  feel  that  I  am  talking  against 
rhythm,  and  rhythm  means  so  much  to  me — I 


28  MEMOEIES 

am  a  slave  to  it.  Do  yon  know  that  I  love  the 
ticking  of  a  clock?  It  is  quite  necessary  to 
my  happiness.  Does  that  seem  absnrd  to 
you?  No  matter.  I  would  not  remain  long 
in  any  place  where  there  was  not  a  clock.  To 
me  it  is  the  most  fascinating  thing  in  a  house. 
Then,  too,  I  have  always  spent  most  of  my 
time  near  the  ocean.  Another  thing  neces- 
sary to  my  happiness  is  music — dance  music 
where  I  can  throw  myself  into  the  spirit  of 
things  until  every  nerve  in  me  responds  to 
rhythm,  the  complement  of  melody. " 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "but  do  such  things  really 
mean  so  much  to  you,  Stella?  Must  you  have 
this  kind  of  environment  to  be  happy?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  quickly.  "I  suppose 
many  people  really  feel  as  I  do,  but  they  have 
never  thought  about  it.  When  I  am  with  peo- 
ple, I  always  divide  them  into  groups — Ob- 
jectives and  Subjectives — this  being  the  nat- 
ural tendency  of  a  psychological  mind. 
I " 

Here  we  were  interrupted  by  Louis,  who 
reminded  us  of  the  fact  that  Stella  was  to 
arrange  the  house  for  the  evening  party. 
And  how  beautifully  she  did  it.  Each  touch 


MEMORIES  29 

was  subtle,  distinctive,  displaying  the  taste 
of  a  keen,  artistic  temperament.  The  color 
scheme  of  the  house,  flowers,  everything  was 
symbolic  of  warmth  and  intensity. 

A  deep  rose  and  gold  predominated  in 
many  of  the  rooms  and  the  flowers  were  ex- 
otic and  abundant.  Tall  candles  and  shaded 
lamps  threw  soft  shadows  over  the  guests, 
while  the  heavy  odor  of  incense  added  to  this 
somewhat  oriental  atmosphere.  There  was 
a  well-balanced  orchestra  composed  chiefly 
of  violins  which  played  continuously,  the  mel- 
odies mostly  Indian  and  Hawaiian.  The  or- 
chestra was  placed  in  the  corner  of  a  room 
where  it  was  curtained  by  rare  foliage  and 
orange  trees.  The  perfume  of  the  jessamine 
and  hyacinth  mingled  with  that  of  the  rose; 
the  Venetian  glass,  the  Sheffield  silver  and 
richly  painted  china  added  to  the  handsome 
setting. 

I  was  bewildered  by  the  unfathomable 
beauty  and  indefinable  charm  of  Stella  that 
evening.  She  was  gowned  in  a  marvelous 
creation  of  white  and  gold  satin  cut  daringly 
low,  revealing  a  neck  of  whiteness  and  fault- 
less symmetry.  The  effect  of  this  costume 


30  MEMORIES 

was  accentuated  by  a  single  crimson  rose. 
Her  hair  was  simply  arranged,  showing  to 
advantage  the  small,  proudly-carried  head; 
her  face  flushed,  eyes  sparkling;  her  figure 
animated  by  youth  and  vivid  beauty,  radiat- 
ing joyful  love  of  life.  She  was  startling. 
Certainly  the  woman  I  saw  now  could  have 
nothing  in  common  with  the  spiritual  person- 
ality I  had  talked  with  the  day  before  as 
she  gazed  into  the  shimmer  of  the  waves,  talk- 
ing to  me  of  transcendental  things,  looking 
like  a  spirit  from  another  sphere,  her  great 
dark  eyes  set  in  the  face  of  a  poet's  Madonna. 
And  now,  as  I  sat  watching  this  woman  of 
sensuous  beauty — her  full,  crimson  lips,  vivid 
coloring  and  haughty  manner — I  began  to 
think  of  the  former  personality  as  a  dream- 
woman,  distant  and  terribly  remote. 

I  wondered  how  she  could  find  anything  in 
common  with  her  guests,  who  had  sacrificed 
the  lovely  things  of  life.  For  is  not  social  life 
a  bartering  of  the  real  things  for  the  flesh 
pots  I  But  this  world  meant  happiness  for 
Stella.  She  seemed  a  personification  of 
worldliness.  I  wondered  how  long  she  could 
stand  these  nights  of  revelry  and  the  ennui 


MEMORIES  31 

that  would  follow.  The  constant  ringing  of 
the  telephone — the  feeling  of  being  a  pris- 
oner— at  every  turn  she  would  be  confronted 
with  some  obstacle,  a  hideous  phantom  which 
would  beckon  to  her  to  come  on  when  she 
was  dying  to  sleep;  to  be  forced  to  smile 
when  she  wished  to  be  serious ;  to  talk  when 
she  longed  for  silence ;  to  dance  when  she  was 
tired;  all  the  time  longing  to  be  away  from  it 
all — from  society. 

I  wondered  if  she  would  not  begin  sooner 
or  later  to  realize  that  strange  sadness  which 
comes  over  one  in  such  gatherings — what 
Wells  aptly  calls  "the  psychology  of  the 
crowd,"  that  nervous  depression  which  is 
worse  than  the  depression  of  loneliness. 

After  the  party  I  went  to  my  room,  glad 
that  the  morrow  would  take  me  to  my  country 
home  away  from  the  futile  strain. 

As  I  walked  into  my  room  there  was  a 
terrible  silence;  nothing  there  seemed  alive 
except  the  telephone. 

There  is  an  awful  personality  and  tempta- 
tion about  the  telephone.  It  is  like  a  grotes- 
que demon  that  taunts  with  the  realization 
that  time  and  space  can  be  so  easily  elimi- 


32  MEMOEIES 

nated.  It  looks  so  stolid,  so  emotionless — 
yet,  by  lifting  the  receiver,  great  waves  of 
emotion  and  truth  can  be  passed  on  to  the 
loved  one. 

There  were  hours  spent  in  pacing  up  and 
down  the  floor,  looking  longingly  at  the  tele- 
phone, even  lifting  the  receiver  and  then  list- 
lessly putting  it  down — realizing  that  further 
attempts  at  communication  would  prove  fu- 
tile. And  then — silence  and  the  deep  shad- 
ows of  the  night  encircled  me,  still  near  the 
telephone  I  glared  mutely  into  many  white 
pages,  never  to  be  read  by  my  beloved,  pages 
bearing  the  emblem  of  consecration  and 
love.  .  .  . 

I  threw  myself  upon  the  bed  still  gowned, 
and,  finally,  through  exhaustion,  I  fell  asleep 
with  thoughts  of  him.  A  vision  came  to  me, 
as  though  God  Himself  felt  sorry  and  sent 
a  messenger  to  lessen  my  pain. 

It  was  a  simple  dream,  but  preciously 
sweet.  In  it  I  was  still  at  the  evening  party 
— yet,  somehow,  a  masquerade  party,  gor- 
geous but  noisy.  Through  sheer  fatigue  I 
had  thrown  myself  down  across  two  gilded 
chairs  (such  was  the  picture  in  the  dream) 


MEMORIES  33 

and  languidly  looked  up  to  see  handsomely 
gowned  women  leaving  their  boxes. 

"It  is  over  at  last,"  I  heard  myself  say 
pensively,  "and  he  did  not  come  to  me." 

I  looked  down  at  my  gown,  which,  in  my 
dream  was  an  Egyptian  robe  of  Nile  green 
•and  blue  with  trimmings  of  silver.  It  was  a 
heavy  gown  and  weighed  me  down.  As  I 
dragged  myself  wearily  from  my  chair  and 
stood  in  the  corner  of  my  box,  my  head 
against  the  post,  waiting  listlessly,  a  masked 
figure  appeared  all  garbed  in  yellow. 

"Is  it  Louis?"  I  said,  without  looking  up. 

"It  is,"  he  said. 

I  sprang  up  like  a  tigress  and  glared  deep 
into  his  eyes;  I  looked  steadily,  searchingly 
at  him  until  I  realized  that  it  was  indeed  my 
beloved. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "we  shall  dance  the  last 
dance  together !  ..." 

And  then  the  scene  suddenly  changed  (as 
it  does  in  dreams),  and  there  were  new  places, 
new  faces.  At  last  we  were  alone.  It  was 
a  room,  quite  Eoman  in  design.  A  marble 
stairway  lead  to  this  room;  there  were  tall 
columns  and  a  divan  gorgeously  decorated 


34  MEMOEIES 

in  pnrple  and  gold,  and  upon  that  divan  my 
beloved  and  I  sat  like  two  children,  two  young 
souls  who  had  suddenly  realized  the  exalta- 
tion of  love.  Yet  we  chatted  innocently,  al- 
most lightly,  so  happy  were  we.  Strange  mel- 
odies sang  in  our  newly  awakened  ears — and 
suddenly  I  was  in  his  arms !  I  can  now  feel 
the  sweet  contact  of  our  young  arms — and 
then  a  great  silence — a  kiss  and  just  the 
one  word,  "dear,"  that  commonplace  word 
suddenly  turned  into  a  medium  of  holy 
love  ...  in  life  it  would  have  been  "dear- 
est," at  least;  in  this  dream  state  only  a 
half  word,  a  syllable,  a  whisper,  was  neces- 
sary ;  words  were  barriers  rather  than  reveal- 
ers  of  thought,  for  our  hearts  had  touched 
there  in  that  beautiful  land  of  dreams !  Our 
minds  were  asleep,  only  the  soul  of  things 
awake,  virile  and  blessed. 

The  scene  changed.  We  ran  about  our 
strange  dwelling  like  little  boys  and  girls.  It 
was  that  old-fashioned  game  of  "the  one" 
eluding  "the  other,"  and  "the  one"  being 
always  caught  by  "the  other."  A  sort  of  in- 
nocent game  that  nymphs  and  flower  children 
might  have  played  at  the  feet  of  the  gods ! 


MEMOEIES  35 

Around  us  was  a  hint  of  spring,  woodland 
music,  fresh  flowers  and  the  laughter  of 
young  dancers  in  the  distance — the  deep 
green  grass  at  our  feet — fountains  of  clear 
water  and  the  deep,  mystic  blue  of  the  sky 
above  us. 

This  I  knew — that  even  if  it  were  only  a 
dream  that  the  words  of  Tagore  would  cease 
to  be  mere  words  to  me  but  would  become 
solemn  realities: 

"You  came  down  from  your  throne  and 
stood  at  my  cottage  door.  I  was  singing  all 
•alone  in  a  corner,  and  the  melody  caught 
your  ear.  You  came  down  and  stood  at  my 
cottage  door.  Masters  are  many  in  your  hall, 
and  songs  are  sung  at  all  hours.  But  the 
simple  carol  of  this  novice  struck  at  your 
love.  One  plaintive  little  strain  mingled  with 
the  great  music  of  the  world,  and,  with  a 
flower  for  a  prize,  you  came  down  and  stopped 
at  my  cottage  door." 

Life,  with  its  hopeless,  apathetic  grief  had 
gone — for  I  knew  that  our  souls  had  been 
wedded  in  that  Spiritual  life  where  vast 
etheric  spaces  combined  in  some  strange,  ma- 
jestic Force-  to  claim  us  as  their  own.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

IT  was  over;  my  work  was  finished;  and 
by  four  in  the  afternoon  I  was  packed  and 
ready  for  the  train  which  took  me  to  my 
home. 

After  a  weary  trip  I  reached  my  station, 
a  strange  little  station  in  the  Adirondacks. 

I  fairly  jumped  from  the  train,  as  though 
running  away  from  something — forward  to 
greet  my  friends,  the  mountains  and  the  sky. 
I  walked  from  the  station  so  that  I  might  en- 
joy the  sweet  freshness  of  the  night.  It  was 
a  good  three  miles  to  the  mountain  top  where 
I  lived,  and  I  climbed  the  path  along  the  steep 
side  until  I  reached  a  point  where  I  could 
see  my  home,  where  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
lantern  hung  high  up  on  the  porch.  This,  I 
realized,  was  the  thought  of  my  old  servant, 
Jane,  who  always  prepared  some  special  and 
thoughtful  form  of  greeting.  The  lantern 
was  a  Japanese  one,  which,  to  her  mind,  was 

36 


MEMORIES  37 

a  thing  of  rare  beauty.    It  swung  to  and 
fro  gently,  waving  me  a  bright  welcome. 

I  stopped  to  look  at  the  little  cottage  with 
its  charm  and  simple  dignity.  It  was  truly 
a  beautiful  place  in  design  and  situation. 
Many  different  kinds  of  vines  and  flowers 
grew  on  and  around  the  house.  I  had  planted 
everything  that  would  climb  so  that  some- 
tiling  would  be  sure  to  grow.  All  of  these 
vines  and  flowers  seemed  to  have  developed 
into  marvelous  green  things.  Now  and  then 
some  hidden  mountain  flower  of  deep  crim- 
son or  purple  peeped  through  the  green, 
making  a  bright  roof  garden  of  beauty  for 
my  beloved  little  home,  for  home  it  was  to 
me,  even  in  its  loneliness.  At  least  there  was 
peace  and  simple  comfort  and  the  gentle 
heavens  so  near  that  my  head  seemed  en- 
veloped in  the  clouds  themselves — clouds  of 
white  and  soft  blue.  Somehow  they  nestled 
about,  floating  downward,  sinking  into  the 
deep  gold  of  the  west  where  so  often  I  had 
watched  the  sun  disappear  in  the  arms  of  the 
infinite — majestic  and  regal  in  its  splendor. 
The  wild  geese  flying  high;  a  gentle  breeze 
stirring  the  tall  trees  into  music ;  that  music 


38  MEMOEIES 

so  dear  to  a  tired  heart — little  lambs  calling 
for  their  mothers,  birds  answering  their 
mates — alwwys  a  call  and  always  an  answer. 
That  was  the  beauty  in  it.  The  great  re- 
sponse and  rhythm  in  Nature. 

When  we  cannot  have  our  desires,  which, 
doubtless,  have  been  interrupted  by  the  ir- 
regularities of  the  material  world  made  by 
man — we  can  find  comfort  in  returning  to 
Nature,  because  here  we  find  the  call  an- 
swered. .  .  . 

I  stood  in  a  reverie  upon  the  threshold  of 
my  door,  drinking  in  the  loveliness,  en- 
tranced by  the  sweetness  and  silence  of  the 
night. 

Slowly  I  entered,  finding  a  huge  fire  and 
the  odor  of  rare  herbs  in  the  dining-room 
where  a  simple  but  delicious  supper  was 
being  prepared.  I  was  greeted  with  a  smile 
of  genuine  affection  by  my  faithful  Jane. 
Why  was  it  that,  in  spite  of  my  sorrow,  great 
love  and  longing  for  the  human  touch,  I  was 
now  tranquil  and  calm — whereas,  in  the  city 
I  was  not  only  wretched  and  nervous  but 
overwrought  to  a  dangerous  degree?  Why 
was  it?  Was  there  a  voice  of  the  silence? 


MEMORIES  39 

Do  some  of  us  listen  and  hear?  Was  it  a 
question  of  listening,  and  being  en  rapport 
with  this  silence?  Was  it  the  law  of  attrac- 
tion? Must  we  become  silent  so  as  to  regis- 
ter the  vibrations  of  the  Invisible,  "the 
echoes  of  incomprehensible  art,  the  true  mu- 
sic of  the  spheres  ? ' ' 

The  next  morning  I  awakened  at  six  and 
went  for  a  walk  over  the  mountain.  I  walked 
for  an  hour,  returning  for  breakfast  upon 
my  porch.  There  was  no  morning  paper, 
nothing  to  bring  to  mind  the  trials  and  sordid 
discontent  of  the  world  of  action.  Only  the 
bright  sunshine,  the  birds,  the  flowers,  the 
exquisite  view.  Thoughts  of  an  impersonal 
nature,  of  life — its  problems  and  of  the  great 
Cause,  the  first  principle  of  Being.  I  was 
striving  to  become  an  initiate  into  the  king- 
dom of  universal  love  where  I  might  become 
a  stronger  woman  and  more  helpful  citizen. 

I  spent  many  days  in  long  walks  and 
drives,  enjoying  the  magnificent  beauty  of  the 
mountains  and  the  sky.  How  well  I  could 
understand  Oscar  Wilde's  passion  for  color! 
As  I  gazed  into  the  sky,  the  deep  blue  shades 
blending  into  soft  grey  and  white,  this  mighty 


40  MEMOEIES 

stillness  and  majestic  splendor  recalled  my 
childhood  days  when  often  I  would  steal 
away  from  unsympathetic  companions  and 
throw  myself  down  upon  the  grass,  lying  for 
hours  gazing  into  the  sky.  I  could  not  take 
my  eyes  from  it,  and  with  this  steady  contem- 
plation and  admiration  would  come  peace, 
that  peace  much  needed  to  a  weary  heart.  Is 
there  anything  more  pathetically  sad  than 
the  sorrow  of  little  children — when  reason 
is  not  sufficiently  developed  to  compete  with 
life's  problems,  when  only  the  heart  can 
ache  and  the  mind  remain  dormant  and  un- 
resourceful?  Keen  suffering,  injustices,  dis- 
appointments, denial  of  small  pleasures,  loss 
of  loved  ones — the  persistent  aching  void  of 
things — with  only  the  sky  above  to  comfort 
and  bring  rest  to  little  hearts  that  can  feel 
with  a  tenderness  and  depth  incomparably 
sad.  .  .  . 

How  unconsciously  do  all  unaffected  and 
pure  exponents  of  life  cling  to  the  elemental 
manifestations  of  nature  for  comfort — the 
affinity  is  strong  and  compelling.  Often  the 
hurts  of  a  bleak  night  are  annihilated  or 
changed  into  less  sensitive  pain  by  the  sweet 


MEMOEIES  41 

tranquillity  and  blessing  of  the  out-of-doors. 
The  sky,  the  sensuous  perfume  of  flowers,  the 
faint  throb  of  the  earth  bring  courage  and 
belief  in  future  compensation 

Byron  was  right  when  he  said,  "Love  is  a 
thing  to  the  man  apart,  'tis  woman's  whole 
existence."  Thus  it  should  be,  for  if  there 
were  not  women  who  made  love  a  creed,  mar- 
riage would  cease  to  be  a  sacrament,  children 
a  benediction  and  man  a  hero — for  love  deep 
and  steadfast  inspires  all  beauty,  chivalry 
and  charm.  It  is  the  absence  of  love  that 
destroys  idealism,  and  when  idealism  is  gone 
the  soul  is  annihilated.  Love  is  a  chalice 
from  which  we  drink  the  communion  wine  of 
exaltation  and  revelation.  It  leads  us  into 
the  realms  of  the  Immortals,  where  we  are 
encircled  with  a  halo  of  light  which  shines 
through  long  days  and  dreary  nights,  leaving 
ing  something  beautiful  in  our  personality. 
Maeterlinck  says:  "We  live  in  great  mo- 
ments." The  memory  of  such  moments  illu- 
mine our  lives,  making  of  us  Eoad  Menders 
and  spiritual  guides  for  less  fortunate  indi- 
viduals. .  .  . 

At  one  time  in  my  life  I  had  regarded  love 


42  MEMOEIES 

as  hysteria,  a  mild  form  of  insanity,  but  some- 
thing amenable  to  will.  I,  too,  had  laughed  at 
broken  hearts,  denouncing  broken-hearted 
people  as  hysterical  Neurasthenics — to  'at 
last  find  myself  the  victim  of  a  thing  I  had 
so  scornfully  regarded  in  others — to  realize 
that  there  was  love  in  the  world  after  all, 
a  love  so  strong,  so  insidious,  that  it  could 
wreck  an  individual;  that  there  was  desire 
which  could  tear  out  vitality ;  disappointment 
that  crushed;  jealousy  that  would  poison; 
love  that  could  cast  one  down  into  the  lowest 
depths  of  degradation  or  raise  one  into  the 
clouds  where  God  himself  would  smile. 

So  often,  too,  in  trying  to  forget  our  love 
we  run  forward  to  greet  it  in  another  en- 
vironment. Such  is  the  inconsistency  of 
human  nature ;  we  delude  ourselves  in  think- 
ing that  we  are  escaping  a  thing  which  has 
hurt  us  when  all  the  time  we  are  pursuing 
certain  land  marks,  certain  longitudinal  di- 
mensions, making  for  ourselves  a  circle  of 
thought  which  binds  us  with  its  tender 
memories. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

I  recall  a  conversation  with  Stella  when  we 
were  discussing  her  very  interesting  self. 

"My  friend,"  she  said  plaintively,  "some- 
times the  wild  desire  for  adventure  takes 
possession  of  me ;  a  mad  desire  to  lean  over 
a  precipice  as  it  were,  but  not  to  fall  over  it 
— the  spirit  of  a  gypsy  it  is,  a  passion  for  the 
purely  unconventional.  But  just  as  I  stand 
upon  the  brink  of  the  precipice  a  certain  in- 
definable "something"  holds  me  in  check. 
It  is  tradition,  I  suppose,  a  spark  created  by 
heredity,  something  transmitted  through  the 
blood  of  my  race.  The  maternal  instinct  is 
strong  in  me,  and  brings  both  danger  and 
conservatism.  It  causes  desire  for  love  in  its 
human  form,  but  also  it  provides  a  desire  to 
express  this  love  in  the  fitting  environment. 
In  those  few  moments  of  battling  against 

43 


44  MEMOKIES 

certain  forces — those  moments  when  a  woman 
only  wants  to  be  loved  with  abandonment, 
when  reason  is  annihilated,  when  there  is 
neither  thought  of  right  or  wrong  —  one 
ceases  to  be  a  woman  in  the  strict  sense  of 
the  word  and  is  just  a  human  being  in  love 
with  love. 

4 'Believe  me,  my  friend,"  she  continued, 
"the  saddest  thing  in  the  world  is  a  woman 
full-blooded  and  young  struggling  to  be  per- 
manently good;  a  woman  inheriting  all  the 
passions  of  the  man  with  the  modesty  of  the 
woman ;  waiting,  praying  for  the  good  to 
dominate.  To  an  anaemic,  negative  woman, 
such  an  emotion  is  unknown;  I  am  speaking 
of  the  normal  type  of  woman,  the  woman  pal- 
pitating with  enthusiasm  and  life.  There  is 
much  cheap  affectation  about  the  physical 
side  of  one's  nature,  much  hypocritical  de- 
nial of  the  sensuous.  "We  should  revere  tEe 
physical  and  adjust  it,  not  crush  it.  It  should 
not  atrophy  and  become  extinct. 

"Zarah,"  she  said  to  me  vehemently,  "I 
am  at  least  a  woman,  not  a  statue!  The 
great  number  of  women  who  helped  to  create 
empires — were  they  cold,  negative  women? 


MEMORIES  45 

No !  For  the  proper  development  of  human 
nature  is  never  single ;  a  strong  mind  should 
be  supported  by  a  strong  body." 

I  could  understand  her  perfectly,  and  I 
hoped  in  her  life  she  would  never  awaken  to 
find  everything  turned  into  ashes;  no  sweet 
memories,  nothing  but  disappointment,  per- 
sistent and  cruel — to  find  herself  in  an  apa- 
thetic attitude  toward  life,  crushed  and  dis- 
couraged. She  was  a  Latin ;  I  was  an  Orien- 
tal; we  loved  with  our  souls,  our  minds,  our 
bodies;  everything  subservient  to  love — love 
in  its  most  intense  and  human  form.  This 
is  not  understood  by  the  phlegmatic  type  of 
woman,  neither  is  it  understood  by  the  super- 
ficial woman. 

Thoughts  of  Stella,  her  very  words,  still 
crowded  through  my  mind.  I  tried  to  dis- 
miss them  and  lose  myself  in  the  beauties  of 
nature,  for  the  evening  was  exquisite,  the 
sky  tinted  with  faint  lavender  and  blue; 
there  was  no  pink  or  gold,  only  the  soft, 
misty  clouds  which  seemed  to  form  a  canopy 
hovering  directly  over  the  house — so  near 
and  personal,  full  of  blessings,  messengers 
of  hope  and  compensation. 


46  MEMORIES 

Now  and  then  I  would  catch  the  heavy  odor 
of  a  flower  closely  resembling  the  perfume 
of  the  jessamine  or  tube-rose,  compelling  and 
seductive  in  the  sense  of  romance  and  beau- 
ty; for  who  is  there  who  has  not  some  senti- 
ment associated  with  these  flowers  f  Flowers 
that  are  dear  to  our  youthful,  happy  days 
when  we  have  spent  hours  strolling  over  the 
green  hills  in  the  presence  of  one  whose 
purity  has  been  symbolized  by  a  rose,  the 
memory  of  which  has  been  imprinted  on  our 
hearts.  How  closely  intermingled  is  the 
aesthetic  and  the  sensuous,  and  how  exqui- 
site the  union  of  the  two ! 

Days  spent  on  the  roads  of  soft  beauty  with 
our  loved  one,  hours  together  in  the  pale 
shadows  and  the  softness  of  twilight — nights 
with  that  loved  one  in  our  arms — or  the 
memory  of  a  terrible  yearning.  Days  and 
evenings  spent  together,  but  the  denial  of 
the  glorious  nights  by  the  cruel  hand  of  Fate, 
which  tortures  with  the  nearness  of  posses- 
sion, and  then  eludes  us,  leaving  only  the 
perfume  of  the  rose.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

SEVERAL  weeks  passed  in  this  quiet  existence 
nntil  a  letter  from  Louis  brought  some  excit- 
ing news — that  he  and  Stella  had  had  some 
quarrel,  trifling  as  he  thought,  but  that  she 
had  taken  the  trouble  seriously,  and  disap- 
peared. It  was  about  a  young  artist  for 
whom  he  thought  she  cared;  that  she  had 
suddenly  broken  off  their  engagement  and 
gone,  leaving  no  clue. 

He  wrote  me  most  intensely,  dramatically, 
thus: 

"My  dream  is  over.  Stella  is  lost  to  me 
forever.  What  will  she  do  ?  Where  has  she 
gone?  She  is  so  fearless  and  daring  and  so 
unprotected,  there  is  no  telling  what  course 
she  may  pursue — no  ties — no  conventional 
sense  of  morality,  nothing  to  act  as  a  rein 
upon  her  actions!  My  home  is  now  turned 

47 


48  MEMOKIES 

into  a  silent  tomb  where  dwells  the  heart 
of  my  love.  I  awaken  rebelliously  eacH 
morning  regretting  the  return  of  conscious- 
ness, only  to  be  tortured  by  my  futile 
thoughts.  I  wish  to  remain  in  the  region 
where  one  feels  nothing,  only  the  joy  of  anni- 
hilation! Last  evening  when  the  shadows 
deepened  into  the  black  night  there  were  no 
stars,  no  delicately  tinted  twilight — only  the 
bleak  dreary  night  pressed  upon  the  last 
remnant  of  the  day,  bringing  a  fitting  en- 
vironment to  my  weary  heart,  where  the 
elements  of  nature  preserved  an  atmosphere 
which  did  not  taunt  me  with  brightness  and 
reminiscence.  Brightness  and  color  at  such 
times  only  deepen  our  sorrows  by  contrast. 
I  am  exhausted,  my  life  meaningless — only 
half  a  man  so  to  speak,  struggling  with  a  grey 
existence.  This  morning  I  am  spending  in 
the  sunshine  which  taunts  me — the  sun  only 
plays  with  me,  only  touches  lightly  a  body 
which  is  unresponsive  and  exhausted.  The 
idea  of  suicide  to  me  has  never  appeared  in- 
sane. The  very  physical  act  seems  a  daring 
thing.  I  believe  that  many  sane  men  soberly 
analyze  their  condition  and  decide  to  take 


MEMOEIES  49 

their  lives  simply  because  they  do  not  care 
to  play  the  game  any  longer,  and  not  be- 
cause of  any  insane  or  cowardly  thought." 

His  letter  continued  in  this  manner. 

As  I  held  the  paper  in  my  hand  it  seemed 
for  a  moment  that  his  sorrow  was  entirely 
mine.  In  a  few  moments  the  almost  joyful 
thought  that  Stella  had  gone  obsessed  me, 
and  for  hours  and  days  I  seemed  suddenly 
lifted  up  into  a  bright,  new  realm  of  happi- 
ness and  hope.  .  .  . 

Many  days  passed  after  I  Heard  this  news. 
I  hoped  for  another  letter  from  Louis,  but 
he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  me — everything 
and  everyone  except  Stella — and  I  was  filled 
with  suspense  and  longing. 

A  damp,  rainy  night  added  to  my  sorrow. 
It  was  late;  I  sat  in  the  darkness,  gazing 
into  the  log  fire  and,  after  sitting  thus  for 
several  hours,  I  decided  to  light  the  candle 
and  read.  The  sound  of  the  wind  playing 
around  the  house,  whistling  in  an  awful 
minor  tone,  resulted  in  a  moan;  the  desola- 
tion, the  loneliness,  the  blackness  of  the  night 
brought  keenly  to  my  mind  the  realization  of 
my  loneliness. 


50  MEMORIES 

I  sat  musing,  leaning  upon  the  table  where 
the  candle  burned  slowly,  throwing  weird 
shadows  over  the  room,  creating  different 
shades  of  gray  and  black,  corresponding  with 
the  bleakness  of  the  night.  The  fire  was 
dying  in  the  hearth,  symbolic  of  my  state  of 
heart  where  everything  was  turning  into 
ashes,  with  only  a  memory  of  futile 
hopes. 

As  I  glanced  down  at  the  last  ray  of  the 
dying  fire  I  caught  the  outline  of  a  shadow, 
a  figure  which  seemed  to  come  from  the  win- 
dow opening  upon  the  porch.  I  looked  again 
— saw  nothing.  Believing  it  to  be  the  phan- 
tasy of  a  fevered  brain,  I  gave  it  no  further 
thought,  and,  blowing  out  the  candle,  walked 
toward  the  fire  to  gaze  into  the  last  bit  of 
warmth  in  my  room.  Instinctively  I  looked 
toward  the  window  where  again  I  caught  the 
glimpse  of  a  shadow.  Fearing  that  it  might 
be  some  crafty  mountaineer,  I  groped  my  way 
to  the  table,  drew  out  a  revolver,  loaded  it 
and  stood  waiting  to  fire  upon  the  intruder. 
After  a  moment  the  shadow  became  more 
distinct.  I  called; 

"Who's  there?" 


MEMOEIES  51 

No  answer.  I  rushed  to  the  window,  threw 
it  open  and  repeated  my  call.  Again  no  an- 
swer. I  looked  about;  there  was  no  one.  I 
called  to  my  servant,  Jane ;  she  came,  insist- 
ing that  it  was  only  my  imagination,  and 
coaxed  me  to  try  to  rest. 

She  left  me  and  I  threw  myself  upon  the 
bed ;  after  a  long  time  I  dropped  off  to  sleep. 
Suddenly  I  awakened  with  a  start ;  the  wind 
had  subsided,  the  rain  was  now  a  quiet  driz- 
zle— all  was  still.  Yet  I  felt  a  presence.  It 
was  uncanny.  I  sensed  a  human  being. 
What  was  it?  Was  I  developing  some  kind 
of  brain  disorder  ?  Was  my  illness  resolving 
into  a  nervous  collapse,  or  was  there  some- 
thing crouching  in  the  darkness  near  the 
window — a  something  not  tangible  or  alive, 
something  haunting  me? 

Straining  my  eyes  in  an  effort  to  see 
clearly,  I  gradually  stood  up  in  bed,  looking 
at  the  window.  There,  I  thought  I  saw  the 
appearance  of  the  profile  of  a  face  pressed 
against  the  window  pane.  Creeping  out  of 
bed,  my  revolver  cocked  and  ready  to  fire, 
I  suddenly  realized  that  it  was  the  face  of  a 
ghost,  or  the  face  of  some  ghastly  human 


52  MEMORIES 

being  void  of  life  or  expression.  Drawing 
nearer,  fearlessly  now,  I  threw  the  window 
open.  There,  staring  blankly  into  space, 
a  shadow  of  her  former  self,  was  Stella 
Graham! 

I  called  her  name ;  she  did  not  answer,  but 
continued  to  stare  into  space.  Gently  I 
lifted  her  upon  the  window  sill,  drawing  her 
through  the  window  and  placing  her  npon  a 
chair,  where  she  neither  replied  nor  assented 
to  my  questions.  She  was  in  a  dazed  condi- 
tion. I  asked  more  questions,  bnt  she  looked 
straight  ahead  without  answering.  Her 
mind  was  apparently  a  blank,  her  body  thin, 
her  face  pale  and  lifeless.  Eushing  across 
the  room  I  poured  out  a  glassful  of  whiskey 
and  fairly  thrust  it  down  her  throat.  She 
swallowed  slowly,  mechanically  until  a  cough- 
ing spell,  induced  by  the  alcohol,  took  pos- 
session of  Her,  bringing  light  to  her  eyes  and 
color  to  her  cheeks. 

Throwing  her  head  against  the  back  of  the 
chair  she  began  to  speak  in  a  feeble,  pathetic 
voice. 

"For  nights  I  have  been  sleepless.  I  have 
lived  in  torture.  I  have  not  eaten,  I  have 


MEMOKIES  53 

not  spoken  to  a  human  being.  I  have  been 
distracted  with  grief.  I  have  been  staying 
with  some  poor  people  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain,  thinking  that  perhaps  Louis  would 
come  to  you.  I  could  see  the  light  from  your 
window  and  somehow  it  drew  me  up  here 
to  you. 

"  There  is  nothing  left  for  me  now.  He 
does  not  believe  in  me,  but  I  am  innocent. 
I  am  not  what  he  believes.  I  did  do  some- 
thing very  indiscreet,  I  admit.  I  did  go  to 
the  artist's  apartment  (I  mean  Joe)  of  whom 
you  have  heard.  First,  we  went  to  the  the- 
atre. He  had  long  promised  to  show  me  his 
art  treasures,  and  also  proof  of  his  hypnotic 
skill,  of  which  I  had  often  heard  him  speak. 
To  do  this  he  had  said  that  he  required  the 
quiet  and  power  of  the  night. 

"  'At  the  witching  hour/  he  said,  which 
was  twelve  o'clock,  'if  you  will  come  to  my 
apartment  you  will  see  there  soft  lights  flow- 
ing through  the  darkness,  and  many  other 
things.  You  will  see  me  put  my  valet  into 
a  hypnotic  sleep  of  no  ordinary  kind,  when 
he  will  reveal  many  hidden  and  beautiful 
truths  of  the  celestial  world,  a  world  well- 


54  MEMOBIES 

known  to  the  Adepts  of  the  East  witH  whom 
I  have  studied.' 

"Upon  onr  return  from  the  theatre  we 
entered  a  dark  room  in  his  apartment,  and 
sat  silently,  solemnly  to  await  the  material- 
ization of  nnseen  forces.  After  sitting  for 
an  honr  I  saw  the  many  strange  things,  but 
I  found  it  very  difficult  to  believe  in  them; 
then  the  lights  were  turned  on  and  Joe  pro- 
ceeded to  put  his  valet  into  a  hypnotic  sleep. 
It  was  then  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  the  man  remained  in  this  condition  a  long 
time,  repeating  exquisite  Indian  lyrics  and 
answering  many  questions  lucidly,  even  ques- 
tions I  asked  concerning  people  and  things 
about  whom  he  knew  nothing.  I  was  com- 
pletely fascinated  and  entranced  by  the  won- 
der of  it! 

"It  was  then  about  daylight — an  impossible 
hour  for  me  to  return  to  my  home.  Joe 
suggested  waiting  until  a  more  suitable  hour, 
and  breakfasting  there  with  him.  To  this 
I  willingly  assented.  So  completely  ab- 
absorbed  was  I  with  the  wonder  of  these  ex- 
periences that  all  sense  of  values  was  lost  as 
to  time,  place  and  conventionality,  and  tKen 


MEMORIES  55 

you  know  that  Venus  side  of  my  nature  which 
dominates  me  at  times — I  loved  the  novelty 
of  being  there,  the  knowledge  of  Joe's  love 
for  me,  the  charm  of  his  virile  personality, 
the  sensuous  beauty  of  his  apartment !  There 
were  rose  tints  with  blue  and  gold,  crimson 
and  purple;  all  the  oriental  shades  blended 
in  perfect  harmony ;  paintings  suggesting  the 
art  of  Titian  and  Eubens;  some  gorgeous 
pieces  of  Satsuma;  an  old  bust  of  Buddha, 
under  which  an  Indian  priest  knelt  holding 
a  burner  that  sent  forth  a  heavy  odor  of  in- 
cense newly  burned;  some  very  old  candle- 
sticks with  huge  yellow  candles  set  among 
ivy  leaves  and  white  gardenias ! 

A  bright  fire  burned  in  the  old-fashioned 
fire  place;  there  were  deep  sofas  with  Per- 
sian pillows;  foot-stools  inches  deep  in  vel- 
vet ;  a  small  tete-a-tete  table  arranged  exqui- 
sitely, upon  which  were  choice  fruits  and 
sweets,  and  just  enough  good  red  wine  to 
give  a  touch  of  hospitality — and  Joe,  whom 
I  so  enjoyed!  Oh,  well,  who  would  have 
gone  home?  Would  you,  Zarah?" 

I  did  not  answer,  I  was  only  thinking  of 
some  way  to  help  her.  I  remained  speech- 


56  MEMORIES 

less  for  a  few  moments,  unable  to  say  any- 
thing coherent  or  worth  while,  with  a  reali- 
zation of  the  cruel  injustice  and  misunder- 
standing. We  sat  facing  each  other. 

"You  said  it  was  Joe's  valet  who  was  put 
into  a  hypnotic  sleep?"  I  added  quickly, 
"Maybe  I  can  help  you." 

"What!"  she  exclaimed,  and  before  I 
could  finish  my  sentence  she  jumped  up  and 
grabbed  me  by  both  shoulders. 

"Tell  me,  tell  me — what  can  you  do, 
Zarah?  You  cannot  help,  even  if  you  want 
to,  because  there  is  no  proof;  he  will  not  be- 
lieve you." 

"Yes,  I  can,"  I  said  quietly,  "the  valet 
you  speak  of  was  Louis'  servant  for  many 
years.  There  is  proof,  you  see,  my  dear; 
it  will  be  all  right,  I  am  sure,  for  botK  of 
you!" 

With  these  words  of  encouragement  she 
grew  more  tranquil  and  the  wonderful  still- 
ness of  the  morning  seemed  to  quiet  her. 
Finally  her  mood  changed  suddenly  from  a 
serious,  womanly  one  to  that  of  a  happy 
child.  She  ran  about  the  room  playfully, 
making  remarks  about  the  place,  its  coloring, 


MEMORIES  57 

decorations,  etc.  She  slipped  out  and  called 
to  Jane  in  a  triumphant  voice  to  come — that 
she  wanted  to  see  her.  Stella  embraced  her 
as  she  came  in,  kissing  her  twice  upon  both 
cheeks,  and  then  ran  back  to  me,  throwing 
her  arms  about  me,  smiling  up  into  my  face 
— quite  like  a  little  girl  of  seven  years. 

After  a  few  moments  I  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing her  listen  to  my  plan.  I  would  go  to  the 
neighboring  village  and  telegraph  Louis  to 
come  to  us. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

Louis  wired  that  he  would  come  imme- 
diately, and  arrived  almost  as  soon  as  Ms 
telegram. 

It  was  a  strange  day  for  me.  It  all  hap- 
pened so  suddenly. 

After  my  explanation  Lonis  decided  that 
Stella  and  he  would  be  married  that  after- 
noon. 

Imagine  how  I  felt  at  this  strange  tonch 
of  Fate — that  7  should  have  been  selected  as 
the  one  to  bring  them  together  again  and 
that  they  should  be  married  from  my  home ! 
It  seemed  too  much  for  human  endurance ! 

Somehow  I  went  about  serenely,  helping 
as  best  I  could,  finally  to  realize  that  the 
hour  had  come  when  I  was  to  witness  the 
ceremony. 

58 


MEMORIES  59 

By  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Louis  had 
made  the  trip  to  the  village  and  returned 
with  the  license.  The  carriage  was  ready 
to  take  us  to  the  church  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain. 

The  three  of  us  drove  down  the  winding 
road  to  the  quaint  little  church.  There  Louis 
and  Stella  were  united.  They  were  too 
happy  to  realize  the  formal  and  wordy  bene- 
diction— perhaps  it  seemed  unnecessary,  for 
their  love  had  made  the  union  pure  and 
complete. 

They  were  to  return  to  my  home  for  supper, 
and  afterwards  take  the  evening  train  for 
New  York  City. 

Most  of  the  drive  was  spent  in  silence. 
They  were  lost  in  a  deep  meditation  and 
reverie  of  happiness  and  understanding. 

The  beauty  of  the  early  evening  was  ex- 
quisite. The  moon  high  in  the  heavens,  each 
star  bright  yet  steady  in  its  dignified  setting 
of  repose,  white  clouds  gathering  in  the  dis- 
tance, manifesting  beauty  in  its  most  sublime 
aspect;  tall  trees  whispering  messages  of 
hope — each  little  bird  gone  to  nest  with  its 
mate — everything  palpitating  with  peace,  that 


60  MEMOKIES 

peace  born  of  mutual  longing  and  expression. 

Finally  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  light 
from  my  little  home,  the  lantern  again  wav- 
ing a  greeting. 

The  carriage  wheels  seemed  to  turn  in  a 
sweet  rhythm  of  song;  the  soft  air  was 
charged  with  blessings;  distant  camp  fires 
sent  out  red  lights;  the  faint  echo  of  a  man's 
deep  voice  singing  in  a  minor  key — and  then 
darkness  again  and  silence. 

Could  they  draw  nearer  to  the  divine? 
Were  they  not  with  nature  in  its  sweetest 
form,  where  they  could  not  escape  the  in- 
spiration that  Nature  gives'? 

Once  in  awhile  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Stel- 
la's face.  I  had  noticed  before  that  hers  was 
a  face  with  a  halo  about  it;  now  there  was 
something  ineffably  fine  in  it,  making  one 
think  of  spiritual  things.  The  physical  was 
strongly  developed  in  her  nature,  the  mental 
keenly  alert,  yet  she  commanded  aesthetic 
devotion.  Lilacs  and  snow  were  about  her; 
lilacs  expressing  the  sweetness"  of  spring; 
snow  as  a  symbol  of  purity.  Yet  suddenly 
there  would  come,  as  it  were,  a  dash  of  crim- 
son and  purple  in  her  personality;  there  was 


MEMORIES  61 

a  color  always  about  her,  potent  and  exqui- 
site. 

Finally  we  reached  my  home  and,  as  we 
entered,  the  fire  was  burning  brightly  in  the 
hearth ;  there  was  no  other  light  in  the  room 
except  two  tall  candles  on  the  mantelpiece 
between  baskets  of  wild  flowers,  the  flowers 
throwing  a  soft  perfume  ont  into  the  simple 
room. 

Stella  slipped  away  for  a  few  moments 
and  upon  her  return  was  dressed  in  a  beau- 
tiful gown  of  soft  tones,  a  sort  of  rainbow 
creation  of  marvelous  beauty.  This  she  had 
borrowed  from  me.  How  weirdly  strange  it 
seemed  that  I  should  have  been  so  intimately 
associated  with  the  woman  who  had  married 
the  man  I  loved.  It  was  Karma,  Destiny, 
I  suppose.  .  .  . 

The  gown  was  long  and  impressive,  with 
a  train  of  lace  hanging  from  the  shoulders, 
suggesting  the  richness  of  mediaeval  splen- 
dor and  patrician  style. 

Louis  stood  bewildered  in  her  presence, 
stunned  by  the  realization  of  such  happiness 
and  possession.  It  seemed  that  he  wanted 
to  say  something,  to  express  his  love,  yet 


62  MEMOEIES 

realized  that  words  were  so  meaningless,  so 
harsh  in  the  face  of  such  loveliness.  He  only 
continued  to  gaze  into  her  eyes  like  an  awk- 
ward schoolboy  frightened  by  the  sublimity 
of  supreme  love.  Womanlike,  she  guessed 
the  cause  of  his  silence,  and,  taking  the  ini- 
tiative walked  eagerly  towards  him,  fairly 
throwing  herself  into  his  arms,  kissing  him 
upon  the  lips  with  womanly  tenderness  and 
worship.  Here  was  a  woman  who  loved 
with  abandonment  in  every  fibre  of  her  being, 
and  he  was  the  man  upon  whom  such  love  was 
lavished! 

How  unworthy  he  must  have  felt,  must  any 
real  man  feel,  how  thoroughly  insignificant. 
A  mere  man  upon  whom  the  very  Gods  had 
smiled ! 

In  the  twilight  dim  shadows  began  to  clus- 
ter about  us ;  soft  breezes  came,  bringing  the 
fresh  breath  of  the  pine  trees;  the  dead 
leaves  seemed  to  change  into  new  life;  the 
perfume  of  a  heavy  flower  sent  out  its  fra- 
grance, and  the  faint  echo  of  chimes  sounded 
in  the  distance.  We  stood  together,  listen- 
ing to  the  call  of  the  night  in  that  silence 
which  is  only  relatively  silent  with  the  call  of 


MEMOEIES  63 

Nature  and  celestial  revelation,  pressing  npon 
our  half-awakened  ears,  bringing  the  full- 
tone  motif  of  peace. 

I  slipped  away  unnoticed,  and  as  I  looked 
back  upon  these  two  lovers  I  realized  how 
superbly  some  women  can  give  all  to  their 
mate,  for  the  first  instinct  of  a  true  woman 
is  to  give.  She  looked  so  beautiful  as  she 
stood  there  offering  herself,  it  seemed  as 
though  a  messenger  of  peace  had  kissed  her 
upon  the  lips,  sealing  them  with  permanent 
holiness,  bringing  ambassadors  of  a  foreign 
but  beloved  country  to  their  side,  forever 
pledging  allegiance  to  their  happiness.  For 
a  moment  there  was  only  the  soul  expressing 
itself,  triumphant  in  its  beauty;  the  mental, 
somewhere  in  the  far  distance;  the  physical 
completely  submerged;  and  like  two  white 
souls  of  a  distant  paradise  they  stood  gazing 
into  the  depths  of  each  other's  eyes.  .  .  . 

Quite  gradually  the  mental  awakened  and 
asked  a  question:  What  about  your  arms? 
Those  arms  made  by  the  infinite  to  clasp  the 
beloved  in  an  embrace  of  ecstasy  and  aban- 
donment, resulting  in  a  Trinity  of  love,  the 
soul,  mind  and  body? 


64  MEMOEIES 

Eagerly,  hnngrily  he  took  her  in  his  arms, 
lost  in  a  rapture  exquisite  in  its  sweetness — 
the  physical  is  so  beautiful  when  it  acts  as  a 
medium  for  the  soul. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

[&.  YEAB  has  passed.  I  have  had  many  let- 
ters from  Louis  and  Stella  asking  me  to  visit 
them,  but  I  had  not  the  courage. 

They,  too,  had  taken  a  little  home  in  the 
Adirondacks  not  far  from  mine — perhaps 
too  near. 

I  finally  determined  to  go  to  them  for  the 
long  promised  visit.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
nothing  mattered  any  more.  I  felt  no  spe- 
cial degree  of  pain,  but  everything  seemed 
one  long  eternity  of  waiting,  not  for  worldly 
happiness  but  for  spiritual  Vision  and 
strength,  for  something  I  had  learned  from 
my  communion  with  Nature — a  steadfast 
belief  in  compensation,  a  belief  in  the  justice 
of  God.  1  had  learned  that  there  was  "beauty 
in  consecration,  strength  in  abnegation,  reve- 
lation in  sacrifice.  Perhaps  after  all,  sorrow 
had  brought  me  something  beautiful. 

65 


66  MEMOEIES 

There  is  much  talk  about  the  call  of  the 
blood.  It  is  true  and  powerful,  but  there  is 
a  call  of  the  spirit,  so  fine  and  potent  that 
every  man  must  bow  his  head  in  recognition 
at  its  passing.  When  once  this  call  is  regis- 
tered there  is  always  a  longing  for  this  king- 
dom of  things  beautiful,  to  look  into  those 
exquisite  things  of  the  soul.  The  soul  is 
very  real,  it  is  not  a  fantastic  creation  of  the 
nervous  organism.  .  .  . 

I  arrived  at  Stella's  home,  and  found  that 
Stella's  Madonna  nature  had  predominated; 
her  dream  materialized.  Her  own  child  was 
in  her  arms;  the  maternal  instinct  and  call 
had  been  answered  and  she  lived  in  the  full- 
ness of  love,  enduring  and  complete.  Like 
the  strong  woman  she  was  there  were  no 
petty  illnesses,  she  was  well  and  more  splen- 
didly beautiful  than  before;  her  complexion 
softer  and  more  rosy,  her  eyes  full  of 
that  spiritual  expression  which  comes  only 
through  motherhood;  her  smile  just  a  bit 
more  tender,  and  the  halo  has  increased,  leav- 
a  deep  border  of  mystic  blue  about  her,  I 
fancied,  a  light  that  seemed  to  encircle  her 
in  holiness. 


MEMORIES  67 

[And  what  a  dear  old-fashioned  mother  she 
was!  She  cared  for  her  baby  herself;  she 
bathed,  dressed  and  rocked  it  in  just  the 
way  our  grandmothers  used  to  do,  ever  watch- 
ful, patient,  and  infinitely  sweet. 

Many  times  they  have  planned  to  take  a 
home  in  the  city,  but  the  thought  of  the  jar, 
the  harshness  intruding  upon  them,  bringing 
the  inharmonies  of  life,  makes  them  stay  a 
little  longer  in  their  quiet  home.  The  * '  now ' ' 
was  too  beautifully  calm  and  sweet;  they 
could  not  bear  to  lose  a  moment  of  such  hap- 
piness where  everything  blended  in  a  full 
chord  of  steadfast  repose. 

As  for  Louis'  medicines,  they  were  put 
aside  with  disdain,  and  a  few  old-fashioned 
remedies  retained,  which,  in  some  way,  seem 
to  preserve  the  proper  equilibrium. 

Her  life  was  that  of  the  normal  woman, 
in  whom  the  first  principle  is  love.  There 
were  no  worldly  desires  to  destroy  the  beauty 
and  tranquility  of  the  deeper  life,  and  she 
not  only  gave  happiness,  but  lived  as  an 
example  of  true  womanhood,  making  me  feel 
that  in  service  and  consecration  no  desire 
could  be  refused.  For  once  in  a  while  Fate 


68  MEMOEIES 

gives  us  our  desires,  particularly  if  they  are 
sweet  ones,  and  I  wonder  if  it  is  not  right  to 
believe  that  even  the  angels  have  their  mates 
— that  it  is  just  one  beautiful,  holy  family 
where  God  himself  smiles  down  upon  all 
lovers — and  the  deeper  the  love,  the  sweeter 
tJie  smile. 


END  OF  THE  FIBST  MEMORY 


SECOND  MEMOKY 


There  are  heroes  who  lie  in  unvisited  tombs. 

UNKNOWN. 


SECOND  MEMORY 

IT  was  with  reverence  and  understanding 
that  I  knocked  on  the  door  of  an  old-fashioned 
house  in  southern  Mississippi.  I  had  heard 
that  the  place  was  to  be  rented  for  the  first 
time,  and  when  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
garden  and  the  dignified,  yet  quaint,  setting 
of  the  place,  every  line  and  touch  marged 
with  tradition,  I  hesitated  many  minutes  be- 
fore taking  courage  to  enter,  for  I  realized 
that  I  was  treading  upon  sacred  ground.  I 
knocked  again,  and  there  was  silence — only 
the  wind  blowing  gently  in  the  tree-tops  and 
the  soft  murmur  of  the  sea  answered  my 
call.  I  knocked  again,  twice,  three  times, 
but  again  silence.  At  last  the  door  opened 
gently  and  instead  of  the  maid  whom  I  ex- 
pected to  see,  there  stood  a  tall,  slender  girl 

71 


72  MEMOEIES 

in  her  early  twenties,  sweet,  serene,  patri- 
cian. Her  deep  black  eyes  held  me  spell- 
bound, for  instantly  I  recognized  a  kins- 
woman in  the  occult  sense  of  the  word — a 
kindred  mentality — a  comprehensive  soul. 

We  stared  at  each  other  strangely  for  a 
second,  and  then,  as  though  she  had  suddenly 
realized  my  mission,  she  hastily  began  to  an- 
ticipate my  thought  and  said  conventionally, 
"I  suppose  you  have  come — to — to — rent  the 
house  ?"  Because  of  the  way  she  stopped 
and  almost  sobbed  the  words  "to — rent — the 
— house"  there  came  a  corresponding  note 
in  my  voice  as  I  said : 

"Yes,  to  live  here  and  to  cherish  this 
beautiful  place  as  you  do." 

An  unconventional  answer  it  was,  but 
when  I  realized  that  her  heart  was  breaking 
at  the  thought  of  a  stranger,  an  intruder, 
daring  to  possess  her  home  that  held  so  many 
personal  and  sacred  memories,  I  could  but 
answer  as  I  did,  and  as  I  entered  the  great 
hall  I  fully  understood  her  condition  of  mind 
and  heart. 

First,  she  led  me  to  the  "parlor"  as  she 
called  it,  an  old  room  with  the  highest  ceiling 


MEMORIES  73 

I  had  ever  seen,  all  done  in  white  kalsomine, 
as  it  was  called '  '  before  the  "War. ' '  The  fur- 
niture was  rosewood,  magnificently  carved; 
there  were  large  windows  with  green  shut- 
ters over  which  hung  heavily  brocaded  cur- 
tains that  swept  the  floor;  there  were  some 
old  busts  and  handsome  pieces  of  bric-a-brac ; 
an  old  French  clock  that  reached  far  above 
the  marble  mantel,  a  combination  of  Dresden 
china  and  old  gold,  covered  by  a  huge  canopy 
of  glass. 

Slowly  she  led  me  through  the  library  that 
held  hundreds  of  books,  and  the  other  rooms, 
until  we  came  to  the  east  end  of  the  house, 
where  she  again  spoke  as  though  trying  to 
master  a  tremendous  emotion.  "This  was 
Ms  room,"  she  said,  "it  was  my  father's." 
A  door  opened  and  I  stood  upon  the  threshold 
of  a  large  room  with  four  windows  overlook- 
ing a  beautiful  garden,  a  garden  character- 
istic of  the  dead  sweet  South  of  long  ago. 
There  were  trees  of  sweet  olive  and  magnolia, 
there  were  palms,  ferns  and  famous  old  Mar- 
shal Neil  roses,  wisteria,  white  camelias  and 
red  japonicas,  and  a  number  of  oak  trees 
seeming  to  reach  the  sky,  through  which  a 


(74  MEMOEIES 

view  of  the  water  was  to  be  had  where  small 
sail  boats  were  drifting  out  to  sea. 

In  the  room  was  a  four-poster  bed  that 
looked  as  though  it  must  have  remained  in 
the  same  spot  for  at  least  three  generations. 
The  paintings  were  hung  by  wires  almost 
breaking  with  age;  by  the  bed  was  a  quaint 
prayer  bench,  with  old  china  candlesticks, 
fresh  flowers  and  a  rosary  made  of  heavy 
black  beads,  the  largest  imaginable  beads 
with  a  long  carved  cross  of  gold  and  precious 
jewels ;  there  was  incense,  too.  Indeed  it  was 
a  veritable  altar  in  its  simple  dignity  and 
peace. 

After  leaving  this  room  we  went  to  the 
back  of  the  house  to  a  huge  gallery;  then  an- 
other garden  and  orchard,  and  a  path  which 
led  to  the  distant  cotton  fields.  Negro  serv- 
ants were  singing  in  the  distance  and  a  faint 
echo  of  dogs  trailing  in  the  woods.  Finally 
we  came  to  her  "retreat"  as  she  called  it,  a 
little  summer  house  covered  with  ivy  and  jes- 
samine. 

By  this  time  the  spark  of  kinship  had 
leaped  into  flame,  for  we  were  talking  vividly, 
personally,  as  though  we  had  known  each 


MEMOBIES  75 

other  for  years.  It  was  because  she,  too, 
had  recognized  me  as  a  sympathetic  friend. 
We  stood  during  a  little  chat  in  this  green 
covered  spot. 

She  was  gowned  in  black  with  two  small 
bands  of  white  crepe  bound  tightly  around 
her  small  wrists;  a  band  at  her  throat,  two 
tiny  black  slippers  that  peeped  out  from  be- 
neath her  simple  gown;  her  hair  was  black, 
her  eyes  seemed  even  more  black;  her  com- 
plexion was  colorless,  which  made  her  red 
lips  stand  out  in  intense  contrast,  showing  to 
advantage  her  aquiline  features. 

It  was  interesting  to  watch  the  struggle 
between  her  Objective  or  conventional  mind 
with  her  Subjective  or  soul  mind.  She  want- 
ed to  be  herself,  yet  realized  what  a  short 
friendship  ours  was;  but  after  a  few  words 
of  encouragement  and  sympathetic  interest 
from  me  she  began  talking  in  a  monologue, 
rarely  looking  at  me  but  rather  down  to  the 
sea,  wistfully,  pensively,  as  though  thinking 
aloud. 

"I  am  glad  you  like  the  place;  I  am  glad 
that  you  will  have  it,"  she  began.  "I  think 
you  will  understand  my  love  for  it — and  how 


76  MEMORIES 

it  tears  my  heart  to  give  it  up  to  a  stranger. 
It  has  been  ours  for  three  generations;  I 
have  been  so  happy  here — but  most  of  all 
he  loved  it,  and  he  died  here.  I  mean  my 
father,"  she  added  hastily. 

"I  understand,"  I  said,  "for  I,  too,  loved 
a  father — just  a  father — a  love  so  few  can 
understand.  The  idle  love  for  a  sweetheart 
is  understood,  the  love  of  a  child,  a  dog,  any- 
thing," I  added  intensely,  "but  somehow  the 
love  of  a  parent  is  placed  usually  upon  a 
prosaic  basis,  a  casual,  negative,  plane  of 
mere  affection,  rather  than  that  of  profound 
love." 

As  I  said  this  she  got  up  suddenly  yet  pret- 
tily and  dramatically,  coming  over  and  seat- 
ing herself  directly  beside  me. 

"I  want  to  be  near  you,"  she  said.  "I 
want  to  be  close  to  anyone  who  feels  the 
same  as  I  do  about  fathers.  Let  me  sit  by 
you  —  I  have  never  before  known  anyone 
who  seemed  to  understand." 

"Tell  me,  my  dear,  tell  me  everything,"  I 
said.  "Why  should  two  gentlewomen  wait 
for  a  conventional  length  of  time  before  we 
turn  to  personalities?  Surely  we  can  afford 


MEMOEIES  77 

to  be  natural?  Perhaps  the  telling  will  help 
you ;  perhaps  I  can  give  you  some  small  com- 
fort." 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  you/'  she  said  impulsively, 
like  a  starved,  lonely  child.  "I  will  tell  you 
everything.  First  I  shall  describe  him  to 
you. 

"My  earliest  recollection  of  him  was  as 
he  stood  in  that  doorway  superbly  dignified, 
bowing  in  his  stately  manner  as  he  went 
forward  to  greet  his  guests,  or  perhaps  some 
one  of  us  as  we  entered,  with  never  the  slight- 
est demonstration  of  his  great  heart,  but 
with  a  smile  that  was  a  benediction  in  its 
simple  sweetness,  a  smile  that  bore  more 
tears  than  happiness,  a  smile  that  seemed  to 
hold  one  in  its  deep  sadness,  yet  gentle  pa- 
tience. My  mother  died  when  I  was  a  baby 
and  his  heart  broke  then,  for  hearts  do  break, 
you  know! 

"There  would  be  a  formal  yet  lovely  din- 
ner (everything  was  formal,  we  were  always 
'at  court'  as  it  were),  the  Major,  as  he  was 
called,  having  been  on  a  leave  of  absence 
was  our  guest  of  honor. 

"I  remember  the  promenade  to  the  dining- 


78  MEMORIES 

room  through  that  long  winding  hall  where 
we  walked  in  couples,  even  the  children,  with 
onr  negro  mammy  at  our  heels;  I  can  now 
qnite  recall  the  roasted  turkeys,  red  wines 
and  all  kinds  of  wonderful  dishes  served  on 
silver  platters  with  flowers  all  around  every- 
thing; Venetian  glass,  wax  candles  and  fault- 
less service.  After  dinner  I  would  catch 
strains  from  his  violin,  and  just  as  I  dropped 
off  to  sleep  I  could  hear  passages  from '  Annie 
Laurie,'  'Old  Black  Joe'  and  'Massa's  in 
de  Cold,  Cold  Ground.' 

"Then  the  usual  thing  happened  in  the 
life  of  a  child ;  the  time  soon  passed  and  I  was 
sent  away  to  school.  After  a  few  years  in 
Paris  I  returned  to  my  old  home,  and  what 
a  rejoicing!  The  servants  were  assembled 
at  the  gate,  there  was  music  and  dancing,  and 
joy  in  its  height.  I  ran  singing  through  the 
house  like  a  child,  I  was  so  glad  to  be  home 
again !  It  was  lonely  and  dull  to  be  sure,  but 
Jie  was  there,  'Papa,'  as  I  called  him.  But 
when  I  went  singing  through  the  house  I 
detected  a  false  note,  for,  in  spite  of  the  joy 
and  mirth  there  was  an  undercurrent  of  sad- 
ness and  there  was  unspeakable  sadness  in 


MEMORIES  79 

the  Major's  face.  He  looked  so  Handsome 
and  well  (he  had  always  been  well),  but  yet 
there  was  something  I  could  not  define.  The 
evening  dragged  on  and  passed. 

"The  next  morning  the  doctor  arrived  hur- 
riedly and  asked  to  see  me  alone.  He 
brought  me  here  to  this  spot  and  told  me 
that  my  father  had  heart  trouble  and  could 
only  live  a  few  months — that  I  alone  might 
prolong  his  life.  'Do  not  let  him  know  you 
have  learned  that  he  is  ill ;  sing,  laugh,  dance 
and  be  merry,  and  you  may  keep  him  a  little 
longer  with  you.' 

'  *  The  world  stopped  for  me  then.  I  felt  too 
deeply  to  cry  out.  I  was  dazed.  I  was  be- 
wildered. I  seemed  to  go  about  in  a  dream 
until  I  realized  that  I  must  begin  the  fight 
against  death.  Then  the  weeks  of  agony  that 
followed — the  subsequent  suspense,  the  strain 
of  it  all  was  unbearable  and  without  avail. 
During  Christmas,  after  the  most  hideous 
suffering,  the  most  cruel  agony  of  pain,  one 
night  sitting  in  his  chair  (for  he  could  not 
lie  down)  he  lifted  up  his  dear  arms  toward 
me  and  died.  .  .  . 

"I  was  like  a  faithful  dog  who  Bad  lost  its 


80  MEMORIES 

master;  I  wanted  to  creep  off  in  a  corner  and 
die,  but  I  could  not.  I  was  helpless.  I  was 
prostrated  by  grief.  And  then,  a  superman 
was  dead.  A  man  so  physically  beautiful 
that  the  Greek  gods  themselves  might  have 
envied  him.  A  man  so  royal  in  bearing  that 
Caesar  might  have  felt  insignificant  and  a 
soul  as  tender  as  a  young  mother's.  This 
was  the  estimate  placed  upon  him  by  priest, 
prince  and  peasant. 

"When  this  great  soul  went  out  into  the 
darkness,  the  silence,  there  was  a  fitting  set- 
ting for  his  departure.  The  rain  poured  in 
torrents  as  though  the  skies  themselves  must 
weep.  The  wind  blew  ruthlessly,  as  though 
the  elements  resented  his  leaving.  Light- 
ning tore  the  sky;  the  thunder  pealed  forth 
in  deep  groans  of  rebellion;  the  candles 
burned  unsteadily,  throwing  weird  shadows 
over  the  room  where  he  lay  for  the  last  time, 
and  fresh  flowers  withdrew  their  perfume 
and  folded  their  leaves  in  despair. 

"The  night  wore  on — on  to  the  gray  dawn 
of  a  winter  day — a  day  that  became  a  mon- 
strous fiend  because  its  hours  were  to  em- 
brace the  last  rites  of  the  magnificent  dead! 


MEMOEIES  81 

the  sun  sank  into  the  infinite  arms  of 
an  everlasting  grief  I  heard  from  my  window 
the  solemn  strains  of  Gounod  and  Liszt. 
Some  thoughtful  soul  had  arranged  this  kind 
of  music,  eliminating  the  commonplace,  for 
orthodoxy  to  him  seemed  limited ;  his  God  was 
that  of  Emerson  and  Tagore,  the  God  of  uni- 
versal love,  of  open  mind  and  imperishable 
soul. 

"There  was  no  wordy  benediction,  only  a 
few  deep  prayers,  a  clod  of  earth  reverber- 
ating as  it  fell  upon  the  black  coffin,  sending 
forth  an  echo  of  pain — silence — a  tear — and 
a  flower — the  cry  of  a  child  in  the  distance — 
a  sob  from  an  old  servant — the  sun  casting 
its  rays  upon  the  newly  opened  ground.  Then 
a  turning  away,  a  glimpse  of  bent  figures 
as  they  retraced  their  steps  going  forth  into 
dusk,  the  wind  whistling  in  a  minor  key 
through  the  tall  trees,  and  then  the  awful  still- 
ness which  brands  itself  upon  the  soul  and 
the  words  of  Shorthouse  ringing  in  my  tor- 
tured brain:  'The  injustice  of  life  and  the  si- 
lence of  God!' 

"Even  the  green  things  about  at  least  had 
hope,  for  when  they  awakened  on  a  dark  and 


82  MEMOEIES 

dreary  morning  to  find  the  sun  not  there  for 
a  day,  with  the  hateful  rain  drops  falling 
from  the  angry  sky,  they  had  at  least  the 
promise  of  another  day,  while  I  had  nothing. 
"Weeks,  months  and  years  have  passed, 
and  still  the  ever  present  longing — memories 
that  refuse  to  die  torture  me — the  crying  out 
for  sight  and  touch — the  persistent  effort  to 
penetrate  the  barrier,  to  pass  the  dwellers 
upon  the  threshold  and  enter  into  the  Celes- 
tial Empire;  the  desire  to  push  aside  laws 
governing  matter ;  to  reach  the  subtle  realms 
of  spirit,  keep  my  soul  in  nightly  pilgrim- 
ages— in  dreams  and  visitations — ever  calling 
his  name.  I  daily  searched  for  someone 
with  a  similar  grief  but  found  no  one  to  un- 
derstand it.  Like  the  woman  who  takes  a 
lantern  and  looks  into  the  face  of  each  pilgrim 
trying  to  find  her  lover,  so  it  was  that  I  tried 
to  find  a  friend  who  could  understand,  only 
to  receive  a  stare  or  an  empty  word  of  ad- 
vice. So,  wearily  I  put  down  my  lantern  and 
waited  in  the  black  night  and  in  waiting  I 
heard  an  acquaintance  saying,  'What  is  her 
grief,  a  great  one,  lover,  husband  dead!' 


MEMORIES  83 

'No,'  was  the  reply  of  a  so-called  friend — 'it's 
nothing  much — just  a  father.' 

"Sadly  I  recoiled  in  horror  at  these  light 
words,  withdrew  from  the  world  of  action 
and  wandered  into  the  all-enduring  world 
of  nature,  of  green  fields,  blue  skies  and  tran- 
quil repose;  straining  my  ears  to  catch  the 
melodies  of  soft  mornings  and  silent  nights — 
yet  always  with  those  words  branded  upon 
my  heart, '  Just  a  Father.'  " 


END  OF  THE  SECOND  MEMORY 


THIRD  MEMORY 


We  talk  of  love  as  an  emotion  when 
yoe  ought  to  recognize  it  as  a  prin- 
ciple (hat  underlies  the  universe. 
CHABLES  B.  NEWCOMB. 


THIRD  MEMORY 

IT  was  England.  I  sat  at  the  window  of 
my  room  and  gazed  into  the  harbor  for  the 
first  time  in  many  days.  I  had  been  ill,  per- 
haps more  miserably  bored  and  worried  than 
ill.  I  sat  there  at  five  in  the  morning 
watching  the  sea.  In  the  distance  was  a 
quaint  windmill,  a  fishing  settlement  and  a 
lighthouse,  where  a  Mahatma  or  wise  man 
of  the  East  lived.  I  felt  a  genuine  longing 
for  something  simple  and  sincere,  and  having 
heard  that  the  Mahatma  was  a  fine  student 
and  lived  the  life  of  a  recluse  and  that  his 
philosophy  was  happiness,  I  was  anxious  to 
meet  such  a  unique  character  who  could  live 
in  a  lonely  lighthouse  and  yet  teach  happiness. 

I  had  two  hours  to  wait  for  my  boat,  and 
as  I  sat  there  watching  the  fishing  and  sail 

87 


88  MEMOEIBS 

boats  putting  out  to  sea  and  the  brown 
skinned  boys  taking  their  morning  swim,  I 
determined  to  meet  this  Wise  Man. 

The  shades  this  morning  were  more  varied 
than  I  had  ever  seen  them,  and  the  sky  was 
tinted  in  the  most  delicate  pastel  shades. 
There  was  more  lilac  and  a  faint  shade  of 
green  to  be  seen  than  the  usual  soft  blue  and 
rose,  with  a  most  exquisite  border  of  vivid 
gold  forming  a  circle  immediately  around 
these  colors,  finished  off  with  a  clear,  almost 
crisp,  cloud  of  silver  that  deepened  into  the 
mystic  grey.  It  was  so  intense  and  silent  I 
felt  the  desire  for  action,  for  spiritual  ex- 
pression, a  sort  of  leaning  toward  the  eternal. 
My  best  means  of  reaching  this  seemed  to 
be  through  my  possible  acquaintanceship  with 
this  man  from  the  East.  I  meant  to  know 
him;  I  jumped  into  my  boat  with  eager  im- 
patience and  rowed  toward  the  lighthouse. 
After  much  rowing  and  persistent  effort,  I 
reached  the  lonely  spot  where  dwelt  this 
lonelier  soul.  After  a  silent  greeting,  for 
he  only  looked  at  me  in  that  Oriental  way,  a 
looking  deep  down  into  the  soul  as  it  were, 
he  said:  "Come  in,  my  dear."  This  "my 


MEMORIES  89 

dear"  was  said  with  true  kindliness  and 
benevolent  interest,  and  his  greeting  somehow 
made  me  feel  that  I  had  met  a  friend,  as  well 
as  a  priest. 

He  took  me  to  his  study,  as  he  called  it, 
where  he  showed  me  some  very  old  and  rare 
books,  such  as  one  really  never  sees  in  shops 
and  libraries,  a  rare  bust  of  the  Buddha, 
some  strangely  pressed  flowers,  a  few  herbs 
from  which  he  made  his  own  medicines,  a 
queer  little  organ  and  a  black  rosary  with  a 
heavily  carved  cross  of  very  yellow  gold 
hanging  over  the  face  of  Christ.  This 
seemed  an  inconsistency.  It  seemed  strange 
to  find  this  in  the  room  of  an  Indian,  who,  as 
I  supposed,  was  indifferent  or  even  preju- 
diced to  our  beloved  Nazarene.  I  could  not 
conceal  my  curiosity,  and  with  the  keen  in- 
tuition of  the  East,  the  Mahatma  said  to  me : 

"Do  you  think  it  strange  to  find  your  Christ 
here  with  our  Buddha?  Do  you  not  know 
that  as  a  lover  of  Divine  Wisdom  that  the 
first  principle  or  fundamental  object  in  our 
fraternity  is  to  reconcile  all  religions,  sects 
and  nations  under  a  common  system  of  ethics, 
based  on  'eternal  verities'?  Do  you  not 


90  MEMORIES 

know  that  this  is  our  sincere  desire,  the  real- 
ization of  the  'brotherhood  of  man'?  There 
is  a  mighty  triad  acting  on  and  through  ethics 
composed  of  Buddha,  Confucius  and  Christ. 
The  first,  a  Hindu,  founds  a  religion  which 
to-day  embraces  many  more  people  than 
Christianity,  teaching  centuries  before  Christ 
the  same  ethics  which  He  taught.  Christ 
repeats  these  ancient  ethics,  and  Confucius 
does  the  same  for  ancient  China. 

* ( These  great  names  represent  members  of 
one  single  Brotherhood  who  all  have  a  single 
doctrine.  They  have  identical  principles  and 
aim  at  identical  ends.  This  is  not  my  theory, 
it  is  a  historical  fact.  You  have  only  to  read 
and  you  will  find  it  so." 

"But  why  do  you  come  so  far  away  from 
your  beloved  India,  may  I  ask  I ' '  There  was 
more  interest  than  curiosity  in  my  question. 

A  wave  of  sadness,  indescribable  sadness, 
passed  over  his  face,  and  he  said  in  his  slow, 
measured  voice :  *  '  That  is  a  long  and  unhappy 
story,  but  since  we  are  to  be  friends,  and  you, 
I  hope,  are  to  be  my  pupil,  I  will  tell  you. 

"Ten  years  ago  I  married  a  beautiful  Kaj- 
pootni,  I  myself  being  the  son  of  a  king.  She 


MEMORIES  91 

was  my  Lotus  End,  my  little  Aranyani.  One 
year  she  lived,  just  long  enough  to  place  a 
little  boy  in  my  arms,  to  whom  we  gave  the 
name  of  Atirupa,  because  of  his  strange  and 
wonderful  beauty  that  resembled  his  mother 
Aranyani,  which  translated  means,  a  forest 
goddess  or  nymph.  He  was  so  like  her  in  his 
love  of  the  woods.  All  day  long  my  little 
one,  my  little  friend,  as  I  called  him,  wan- 
dered by  the  sea  and  back  to  the  woods.  We 
were  inseparable.  So  much  so  that  it  seemed 
that,  as  young  as  he  was,  he  must  have  felt 
my  grief  as  keenly  as  I  felt  his  joy. 

' '  There  was  a  splendid  mutual  understand- 
ing, the  kind  that  was  so  silent  yet  subtle,  that 
our  hearts  were  one.  It  was  a  real  joy  to 
see  him  playing  in  the  woods  at  dusk  with 
the  'tamala'  shadows  falling  upon  him  and 
the  great  trees  waving  their  branches  over  his 
playground  where  he  found  the  red  fruits 
and  'gunja'  berries  that  he  loved  so  well. 
He  spent  hours  rolling  over  in  the  tall  grass 
until  he  fell  asleep  from  the  very  joy  and 
beauty  of  these  sweet  pleasures,  and  all  this 
time  I  sat  mutely  watching  his  play,  dream- 
ing of  his  mother,  my  Digit  of  the  Moon,  my 


92  MEMORIES 

sweet  Lotus  Bud,  who  had  passed  so  swiftly 
out  of  my  arms. 

"My  little  Atirupa  was  all  I  had  left.  He 
was  now  seven,  with  a  peculiarly  precocious 
mind  and  strongly  developed  body.  Often 
we  played  in  the  sands  and  in  the  blue  water, 
and  at  night  we  had  supper  alone  together. 
We  read  little  boys'  stories  until  bedtime, 
when  we  both  went  to  bed  like  two  tired  chil- 
dren. He  had  the  true  spirit  of  adventure. 
He  was  fearless  and  investigating  and  our 
days  were  full  of  excitement,  in  spite  of  our 
isolation. 

' '  One  evening  he  asked  to  go  swimming  with 
some  big  boys  whom  we  knew.  I  consented 
and  they  were  off  with  the  glee  and  fresh  joy- 
ousness  that  only  young  boys  can  feel.  I 
watched  them  in  the  distance,  my  own  heart 
reflecting  their  sweet  joy,  feeling  the  glad 
thankfulness  that  comes  only  to  those  who 
have  great  love  and  understanding  of  little 
joys.  I  sat  in  the  dusk  thinking  of  the  past, 
of  its  seeming  cruelty,  its  torturing  lessons 
of  sorrow,  its  long-wearying  memories  that 
refused  to  die.  Yet  still  in  my  heart  there 
was  a  great  thankfulness,  a  deep  gratitude 


MEMOEIES  93 

for  this  one  precious  gift,  this  one  source  of 
joy  and  human  companionship,  my  little  boy. 
When  I  heard  a  shout  from  the  beach.  I  saw 
nothing  but  I  heard  one  onlooker  say:  'There 
is  something  in  the  water,  something  in  the 
water. '  Then  my  mind  seemed  paralyzed.  I 
stood  speechless,  motionless,  repeating  in- 
sanely :  '  There  is  —  something  —  in  —  the  — 
water !' 

"The  words  sounded  thousands  of  miles 
away  and  yet  I  felt  nothing.  I  was  petrified 
with  grief ;  for  I  saw  them  lifting  a  little  cold, 
wet  body  out  of  the  sea,  its  mass  of  black  hair 
all  matted  in  lovely  curls  upon  the  calm 
sweet  forehead.  They  laid  him  down  in  the 
sand.  They  worked  skilfully  over  him,  but  it 
was  too  late.  That  little  soul  had  sailed 
away  in  the  little  'blue  boat'  of  which  we  had 
been  singing  in  the  morning,  sailed  to  a 
Heaven  where  there  are  always  blue  boats 
and  morning  songs  for  little  children  who 
see  God,  and  where  they  remain  as  sweet 
symbols  of  the  all-enduring  love  of  eternity. 

"They  brought  me  my  little  one  and  I 
gathered  him  in  my  arms  and  walked  back  to 
our  home  which  would  never  be  home  again. 


94:  MEMORIES 

I  sent  the  others  away;  bathed  his  dear  body 
and  kissed  his  beautiful  hair.  I  thanked 
Heaven  that  I  had  ever  been  tender  and 
gentle  with  him.  I  put  the  blue  boat  in  his 
helpless  little  hands,  a  cross  at  his  head  and 
the  wild  flowers  we  had  gathered  together  at 
his  feet,  then  I  went  out  into  the  awful  si- 
lence— that  terrible  silence  which  speaks 
nothing  to  us  at  such  a  time,  even  if  we  be 
lovers  of  God. 

"I  watched  the  silent  stars  creep  into  their 
snowy  beds.  I  saw  the  moon  fade  away  into 
clouds  of  despair;  I  heard  the  little  breezes 
in  the  tall  trees,  moaning  for  my  little  one 
with  the  eyes  so  sweet  and  voice  so  tender 
and  then  I  could  bear  no  more.  I  ran  down 
towards  the  sea  to  lose  myself,  my  sorrow  in 
the  bliss  of  annihilation,  when  something  sud- 
denly stopped  me.  It  was  something  almost 
tangible,  something  very  quiet  and  very 
sweet.  It  said  'He  lives,  he  is  marching  to 
little  soldier  tunes  in  the  mystic  blue,  and  he 
has  his  blue  boat  and  his  mother,  too.'  Then 
something,  a  far-reaching,  all  abiding  peace 
took  possession  of  my  soul.  I  felt  calmed, 
strong  and  resigned,  only  I  couldn't  go  back. 


MEMORIES  95 

I  couldn't  go  back  into  that  house  again.  I 
sent  for  my  friends,  the  neighbors.  I  watched 
them  take  him  to  the  churchyard  beyond  the 
Temple  gate  where  they  laid  him  down  to 
sleep  in  flowers,  that  sleep  which  little  chil- 
dren love  so  well,  and  I  came  away — far  away 
— into  a  new  country,  for  home  was  strange  to 
me  then;  so  I  stay  here  keeping  the  light, 
guiding  the  path  of  the  ships,  always  pray- 
ing for  the  safety  and  happiness  of  those  I 
guide,  and  especially  if  there  be  any  little 
boys  who  love  wild  flowers  and  who  sail  in 
'blue  boats'  upon  the  sea. 

"So  now  you  may  know  why  I  am  con- 
tented here.  Why  I  choose  to  be  alone.  The 
world  can  hold  nothing  for  me  now;  but  you 
are  young.  You  have  work  to  do  in  the  world. 
Go  back  to  it,  and  remember  my  words  to 
you.  May  I  give  you  some  advice?  You 
have  heard  that  I  have  lived  through  much 
unhappiness,  yet  somehow  I  still  believe  in 
happiness.  It  is  my  creed.  I  wish  that  you 
may  be  happy.  Follow  me  while  I  give  you 
some  advice,  a  philosophy  that  I  wish  you  to 
remember.  If  I  say  too  much  you  must  for- 
give me.  But  I  love  this  subject  of  life,  of 


96  MEMORIES 

the  individual  in  his  relationship  to  nature,  to 
happiness,  to  clear  thinking  and  fine  living; 
for  there  is  a  practical  value  in  happiness. 
Listen  and  I  will  give  you  my  thoughts.  .  .  . 

6 '  The  Puritan  idea  of  sacrifice  and  abnega- 
tion was  a  distorted  conception  of  Christian- 
ity. It  was  carried  to  unhealthy  extremes 
and  the  results  were  usually  futile.  Sacri- 
fice can  only  be  noble  when  it  is  intelligently 
directed  for  a  purpose  and  to  a  normal  end. 
Sackcloth  and  ashes  have  doubtless  crushed 
more  souls  than  they  ever  developed.  On 
the  other  hand,  happiness  is  such  a  wonderful 
and  beautiful  thing,  can  it  be  other  than  the 
normal  and  right  means  of  development  ?  All 
nature  is  so  beautiful  and  happy,  that  it 
would  seem  that  happiness  is  the  High-Priest- 
ess of  God's  desire. 

"When  we  have  lost  the  soul  we  love  most, 
never  to  behold  in  the  beauty  of  the  physical 
again,  our  hearts  turn  to  stone.  We  move 
in  the  world's  arena  as  bewildered,  fright- 
ened children,  groping  for  new  faculties  so 
that  we  may  learn  to  dwell  with  the  spirit  of 
misery,  yet  realizing  that  the  only  respite 


MEMOEIES  97 

from  our  own  tmhappiness  is  the  effort  to 
make  others  happy. 

"We  behold  poor,  struggling  humanity 
tied  by  physical  faculties  and  desires  which 
insist  upon  expression,  which  seem  to  possess 
and  overpower.  Heredity  and  environment 
often  combine  against  pilgrimage  toward  the 
Infinite,  and  the  struggle  seems  both  futile 
and  inhuman.  We  are  tossed  upon  an  ocean 
of  hostile  forces,  too  strong  for  a  fair  battle. 
Seeing  this  struggle,  those  who  understand 
its  value  long  to  see  happiness  lighting  the 
way,  strengthening  and  sustaining,  giving 
nourishment  to  those  who  famish  for  a  torch- 
bearer  in  the  night  so  dark  and  dreary. " 

I  left  with  his  words  imprinted  upon  my 
heart  and  his  last  words  I  can  never  forget, 
and  neither  can  I  forget  Mm. 

"Go  in  peace,"  he  said,  "love  Nature  with 
all  your  heart  and  with  all  your  mind.  Love 
everything  that  is  beautiful;  in  loving  the 
beautiful  you  love  God.  It  is  not  a  means 
to  an  end,  this  love  of  beauty,  for  it  is  the  end. 
There  is  nothing  beyond.  It  is  not  a  road 
that  leads  to  the  Infinite,  for  it  is  the  Infinite. 
The  greatest  lover  is  the  greatest  artist — he 


98  MEMORIES 

is  the  great  revealer,  for  he  has  felt  the 
highest  principle  of  creation — love." 


THE  END 


IB  33537 


M95630 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


